Us Against the World
by GrownUp90s
Summary: [Adam's Odyssey, 1/4] Adam Banks, Paul Larson, and Jake McGill were the best of friends – until Gordon Bombay came along. A look at Adam's life as a Hawk, his transformation to Duck, and the relationships he forged along the way.
1. The Kindest Thing to Do

**Author's Note (8/14/17):** Hey, this is a revised edition of my first real epic: _Us Against the World._ Spanning from pre-D1 all the way through D3, and with a bit of post-canon tacked on at the end, this novel spans from the years 1991 to 1997. I realize that doesn't sound like much, but these 6 years are hugely formative, especially for Adam Banks. Here, I tell the story of how I imagine Adam's transformation from Hawk to Duck. To do that, I will often quote from canon. Any text you see in **bold font** are lines from the movie trilogy and belong to Disney.

In addition to Adam's transformation, I'll also tell the story of Paul Larson _._ Perhaps readers of _Breaking Up the Flock_ will better understand him. Speaking of BUTF, it is not necessary to read that story in order to understand this one. But if you're just dying of curiosity, don't let me stop you.

Anyway, enjoy the show!

-Matt

* * *

 **Chapter One: The Kindest Thing to Do**

"Steady, girl," Bill Larson called out to Robin, the family's loyal chocolate lab. He raised his Ruger and took aim at the elderly dog, who gave her owner an adoring grin. She had no idea what was coming.

9-year old Paul Larson trembled as the sound of the gunshot reverberated across the family farm north of Duluth. The sandy-haired boy witnessed the sad spectacle from a bay window in the main house in one final act of love for the sweet-natured dog. It was Labor Day Weekend of 1991, and Paul was up at the old family dairy farm with his parents as per holiday custom. This trip up north, however, was different from the others in one crucial aspect: Bill Larson had gone up with the intention of personally euthanizing his dog.

Paul knew that there was nothing he could have done to save Robin, or to make her young and healthy again. All he could do was see her off to Doggy Heaven, and that was what he did from inside the house. Feeling his knees begin to buckle, he sat down on the bay window bench as tears ran down his high, pale cheeks.

"It was the kindest thing to do, what yer old man did."

The boy's dark, watery eyes looked-up to discover Uncle Joe. The 36-year old dairy farmer stood at six-feet-five-inches, had pale Nordic blue eyes, and a thick head of chestnut hair that had begun to gray at the temples. True to Larson form, Joe's face was square, clean-shaven, and rather severe-looking.

"Once they start crappin' indoors, it's pretty much the end."

"I know."

Joe gave a sympathetic look to his heart-broken nephew. Even by Larson standards, Bill was a tough cookie. Joe did not understand why his brother could not be bothered to take the poor dog to a vet and have it put down properly.

 _Probably tryin' to save a couple bucks, cheap bastard._

"Would you like some milk?"

Paul nodded without saying a word.

Joe turned on his heel and made for the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to get away from the weaping child. Despite being one of the milder men in his family, Joe Larson was uncomfortable with emotional displays. He had no idea what to say or do in these situations, so he offered his nephew the one thing he had in abundance: rich, comforting milk, painstakingly farmed by Larson men for generations.

As Joe stepped into the massive country kitchen, he observed his parents and his wife, Tina chatting over coffee with his sister-in-law, Maria. The group had been talking about _The Stand_ , Stephen King's best-seller that had been published earlier that year when Anders – or 'Andy' – the old Larson patriarch observed his eldest son enter.

"What's happenin', Joe?"

"Just gettin' some milk for Paul. He's very upset, Maria. You might wanna get on that."

Maria Larson rose from her seat with an annoyed grunt. The brunette dental hygienist looked much older than her 33 years. The purple bags beneath her brown eyes had given her a permanently tired look, as did the stress lines all across her face. Being married to Bill Larson took a visible toll on her, but she would never consider leaving her husband. The last thing she wanted was to risk having her son left alone with _him._

"He saw Robin get put down, didn't he?"

Joe nodded as he poured milk from a glass pitcher.

"Unbelievable," Maria huffed. "Where's Paul?"

"Over in the family room."

"Thanks, Joe."

"Hey, hey, hey," he called out, extending a glass of milk. "Bring him this."

Maria gave an appreciative nod as she took the glass, then made her to her son. The house was large, and it remained home to three generations of the family, with small packs of Larsons off in different sections, each doing their own thing over the holiday weekend. Everyone had known what Bill's plans were, and had taken care to avoid being anywhere that overlooked the shooting. Everyone except Paul, who Maria discovered alone in the large, rustic living room complete with hardwood floors, sturdy, handmade wooden furniture, and a massive log-fed fire place. The calm, dead face of an impressive buck stared out at the living room from just above the mantle.

Maria reached for a box of tissues and approached her son.

"There you are, sweetie."

The gentle voice of his mother had the effect of calming the boy, but he did not look up as she took her seat next to him.

Looking at her son's shaggy, dirty blond hair, Maria smiled gently.

"We gotta get you to the barber's," she declared, brushing away a few long locks with her hand. "We can't keep that handsome face hidden."

Paul Larson was not an unpleasant looking child – but he had never really gone through a 'cute little boy' phase. He had always been tall for his age, and his reserved demeanor had a way of making him seem mature at best and icy at worst. But given his genes, he was all but certain to grow tall and strong, and his obsidian eyes were – if not exactly pretty – definitely magnetic.

Once his face was clear of hair, Maria set the milk down and got to work dabbing her son's teary brown eyes, cleaning his face with one hand while pulling him in and holding him with the other arm.

"Why did Daddy kill Robin?"

Maria felt a surge of anger at her husband for inflicting such a traumatic experience on their son, but managed to conceal it.

"Robin has been in a lot of pain for a long time," she explained. "Putting her down was the kindest thing to do."

Paul nodded at the familiar explanation that he had heard earlier from his uncle. But the boy could not shake the feeling that his father had actually _enjoyed_ the experience. Bill had seemed a bit too excited about the prospect of putting his shiny new Ruger to use, and this more than anything else disturbed the boy.

"Here," Maria placed the milk in her son's hands. "Drink this."

Paul nodded, raised the glass to his wide lips, and made short work of the milk. All the tears had taken a lot out of him, and he had felt drained. The rich, creamy milk gave him a badly needed pick-me-up.

"Let me just get that," Maria offered, wiping her son's milk moustache off with a fresh tissue. "You're too young for a moustache."

Paul looked up at his mother, prompting her to give a smile that was warm, but well short of her eyes. Her eyes had a certain melancholy to them that other people had often asked about. But Maria batted away those probing questions. Those people had already known the answer, but they had tried in vain to get Maria to acknowledge it to herself. Now they had given up trying. Maria would have given up too were it not for Paul.

Mother and son sat together for nearly an hour when a heavy, familiar gait pounded across floor, and it causing them to jump slightly.

"He's not crying is he?" Bill Larson demanded.

In true Larson form, the powerfully-built 33-year old stood at six-five, had blue eyes, a square face, and a severe natural countenance. Like all Larson men, Bill's brown hair had been Viking blond as a child, but had darkened with age. Unlike the other Larson men, however, Bill was losing his hair and had already resorted to a comb-over that fooled no one. Now, the off-duty corrections officer wanted to see if his son had violated the code of manliness that managed to be at once vague and unequivocal.

"No, sir," Paul answered, the firmness of his voice surprising him.

"Good. Be a winner, not a whiner."

Bill's interrogative scowl softened into grave diligence before he continued.

"Robin's buried. If you wanna say goodbye, I can take you to her marker."

"Bill, it's too soon," Maria protested, drawing a look of death from her husband.

But 9-year old Paul was not about to give his father a reason to call him 'girly.' That simple epithet had stuck to the boy like napalm and burned just as badly. Having already watched the Old Man use their family dog for target practice, Paul was determined to hit his father the only way he knew how: by denying him his tears. The boy put on a determined face and stood up.

"I'm ready whenever you are, sir."

Bill nodded and gave his son an approving clap on the back that nearly knocked the boy forward.

 _I might just make a man outtta this wimp yet._

"Good. Come on."

Without breathing another word, Bill led his wife and son out to the front of the main house where a four-wheel all-terrain vehicle sat waiting. The off-duty corrections officer looked over to his wife.

"You follow along on the one in the loft," he indicated the large storage shed with his head.

Maria nodded and made her way to the loft.

Bill shoved a black helmet into his son's gut.

"Put this on."

Paul strapped on the adult-sized helmet while Bill sat down on the driver's seat without a helmet of his own. As soon as he heard the roar of the other ATV from behind him, Bill fired-up his vehicle and took off in the direction of the marker, prompting his son to grab him by the waist for security. The boy could feel the grip of the pistol holstered on his father's belt. He shuddered and nearly fell off the ATV as he recoiled from the gun, but he managed to recover his grip around his father's waist just in time. As the terrain became less even, Paul's head rattled inside the massive helmet, but it had the effect of making him dwell less on the holstered Ruger.

The trio eventually made it to the top of a small hill on the perimeter of the farm. The freshly-piled earth was adorned with a simple wooden cross.

"We better make this quick," Bill declared, observing the falling sun.

As they stood around the marker, Maria and Paul reverently bowed their heads. Bill remained perfectly upright. No one said a word, but Maria and Paul prayed to themselves. Bill's cold blue eyes closely studied his son's face. Should the boy have cried, his father would have noticed it straightaway. But Paul successfully held back the tears as he willed Robin to Doggy Heaven.

* * *

Philip Banks placed a check mark next to the item 'cleaned room' on his list of tasks for his son, Adam to complete in order to earn his weekly allowance. Adam's father was a no-nonsense lawyer and a stickler for rules, etiquette, and procedure. Standing at an even six feet, he was blue-eyed and trim, with a head of thinning brown hair. Despitethe holiday, he wore a white dress shirt – its open top button a gruding nod to informality – along with a pair of gray dress slacks, and brown loafers.

Philip's checklist included seven hours of studying game tape, four hours of skating drills, and three hours of scoring drills, along with keeping the bedroom clean, and writing a two-page book report on a different novel each week. With the beginning of the school year right around the corner, completion of homework would soon be added to the list. An incomplete on any one of these tasks meant no allowance for the week. Satisfactory completion of all tasks earned Adam $40 a week – a handsome sum for a 9-year old.

Philip lowered his clipboard and took one last look at the bedroom of his middle son. An elaborate roll top desk dominated the wall facing a twin bed adorned with a hunter green Minnesota North Stars comforter. A modest 24-inch TV along with a VCR was tucked into the corner next to the desk, with all of Adam's hockey games neatly stored and labeled inside the stand. Hockey trophies and Pinewood Derby cars covered the top of the boy's dresser, and hockey posters littered the walls. A large poster of Mike Modano, the third-year center for the North Stars hung over the headboard.

The Banks patriarch gave his son a short nod, then reached into his wallet and pulled out two twenty dollar bills.

"Well done."

"Thanks, Dad."

The 9-year old gratefully took the cash, but the simple words 'well done' meant far more to him than the money. With his sandy hair, sapphire eyes, diligent habits, and eagerness to make his parents proud, Adam Banks was the hard-working boy next door that parents dreamed of having as their own. But his determination on the ice masked a deep and gnawing sense of insecurity. He was the most dominant player on the perennial champion Hawks, but Adam never quite had the sense that he was living up to the lofty of expectations of his parents, or Coach Reilly, or even his admiring teammates. This drove him to constantly push the limits of his capabilities.

For a boy like that, the words 'well done' from a demanding father was like praise from Caesar.

With the inspection having been completed, Philip turned to make his way to his home office to file away the week's checklist, but halted when Adam spoke up.

"Excuse me, Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Can I invite Jake over now?"

Philip nodded.

"Go ahead, you earned it," he said with a wafer-thin smile before heading into his den.

Adam beamed at the prospect of hanging out with his best friend, Jake McGill, and hurried over to the phone on his desk to place the call. He was close to all of his teammates, but Adam, who played center, was particularly close to his wingman Jake McGill. Jake was the bigger kid, and was a bully in the eyes of many; but to Adam, he was a loyal and fun-loving friend with a wicked sense of humor.

Paul Larson, a Hawk defenseman, was also a good friend of Adam's. But the defenseman was more quiet and detached than McGill, which made for less exciting company. And in any event, Adam knew that Paul was up north visiting extended family and would be unable to come over.

Having dialed the number that he knew by heart, Adam waited for several rings before a slurred, raspy voice answered.

"Uhhh, hello?"

"Hey, Mr. McGill – it's Adam. Can Jake come over to my house, please?"

Jim McGill, who was eight martinis deep during his holiday weekend, sat up in his La-Z-Boy recliner and tried to focus.

"Y-y-you said yer name's Ad...mrw...?" He hiccuped.

"Adam, yes."

"JAAAAAAAKE!"

Adam winced on the other end as Jim McGill bellowed his son's name, not bothering to cover his phone's mouthpiece. The earnest center had no idea why his friend's father had always sounded so weird on the phone, but Mrs. McGill hardly sounded any better whenever it was her turn to answer the phone.

Adam heard the rumble of excited footsteps on the other end before Jim lazily informed his son that someone named 'Andrew' was on the line.

"Hello….Adam?"

The center laughed.

"No, it's Andrew. Didn't you hear?"

Jake laughed to hide his embarassment. He hated it when his parents answered the phone, especially when they were drunk. But he went along with Adam's pretense – it was better to laugh that sort of thing off than it was to cry about it.

"Sorry, _Andrew._ My mistake. What's up?" _Please invite me over, please invite me over._

"I passed inspection," Adam proudly announced. "So you can come over if you want."

"I'm there!" Jake's silver-blue eyes lit up in excitement.

"Cool, see you soon."

Jake took the cordless phone and set it back on the wall charger in the kitchen. He felt an invisible weight lift when Adam invited him over. Charlotte and Philip Banks might not have been the most effervescent adults in the world, but they were an absolute joy compared to Jake's own parents who were either drunk, nursing hangovers, or working. The Banks Residence had always been a safe-haven for Jake McGill, and any invitation to the place at any time was always welcome to the tall wing.

"JAAAAAAKE!"

 _Great. What does he want now?_

"HIT ME!"

Jake looked from the kitchen through the archway into the living room where he could see his father's outstretched martini glass. He sighed and grabbed the nearly-empty bottle of gin on the counter, then approached his father who smelled like he had been rolling around in a puddle of gasoline.

"Say when," Jake instructed as he began pouring.

"Huh?"

"Say when."

"Huh?"

"When."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

The gin went nearly to the brim of the glass when the bottle emptied. No room for vermouth, but Jim was at the point where cocktail niceties were redundant. Jake set the bottle down next to the recliner.

"I'm going over to Adam's, Dad."

"Huh?"

"Adam's! I'm going over to see Adam."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

Without wasting another word on his father, the boy grabbed his rollerblades and made for the front door. After strapping up, the young forward set off for his best friend's house. Jake was quite tall for his nine years, but Coach Reilly kept the boy on the wing rather than move him to defense because of his surprising speed. Like Adam and Paul, Jake had sandy-colored hair, which along with their on-ice dominance had earned the group the 'Golden Trio' moniker.

But they were more than three blond-haired boys. They were Hawks to the core, and they played each game like it was a fight to the death. The locker room bond that they shared between themselves and the other Boys in Black was like men going to war together. But as tight-knit as the whole team was, Jake's friendships with Adam Banks and Paul Larson stood above the rest, and Jake clung to those two as rare sources of warmth and loyalty.

He had a sixteen-year old sister named Melanie, a pretty blonde. But the seven year age gap precluded any real bond between brother and sister. Besides, she was out of the house at every opportunity, usually with a guy.

After several minutes of skating, Jake arrived at the sprawling Banks Residence. He glided up the long driveway and made his way to the front door, being greeted by Adam's friendly smile about a minute after ringing the bell.

"Hey, Mo," Jake greeted his friend with a hug that surprised Adam, but was returned readily enough.

'Mo' was Jake's nickname for Adam. It was also the nickname of Adam's hero, Mike Modano, whose jersey number 9 the center shared.

"Good to see you, Jake," Adam replied, releasing his friend from the embrace before walking onto the front porch and closing the door behind him.

Jake sat down on a nearby patio chair to remove his rollerblades.

"Your dad is some character," Adam chuckled. "He thinks my name is Andrew."

Jake laughed uncomfortably.

"Uh, yeah, he's something. But who cares? Who needs dads, anyway? It's us against the world, right?"

"Us against the world," Adam agreed with a solemn nod.


	2. Knowing Your Place

**Chapter Two: Knowing Your Place**

Adam zipped-up his Hawks jacket over his white dress shirt and scarlet-and gold-striped St. Alban's necktie. The black training jacket had always given the soft-spoken center a wonderful feeling of invincibility. All of the kids at Adam's school, even the ones who were not into hockey, knew of the Hawks and their fearsome reputation. The scowling white bird of prey emblazoned on the black jacket sent a clear message to the rest of the world that said _Don't mess with me._

He had just completed an annual tradition where his mother, Charlotte, photographed him with his backpack slung over his shoulder and standing by the front door. Adam posed for this shot every year on the first day of school, following in the footsteps of his now 13-year old brother Michael. A talented center, Michael Banks had also been a Hawk during his Pee Wee days. Now he played for Sienna Middle School, and was a strong candidate for admission into either of the area prep schools Eden Hall and The Blake School – both of which boasted elite hockey programs.

6-year old Eric, the youngest of the Banks boys, did not play hockey; but he had shown a strong aptitude for math, and was only one grade below Adam despite being three years younger. High achievement was in the Banks DNA, and any slip-up was desperately avoided by the three highly competitive young men.

Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets for warmth during the unseasonably brisk September morning, Adam saw Jake McGill and a few other kids waiting at the bus stop not far from the Banks Residence in Edina. The half-dozen students at the stop included an even mix of public school students, and students like Adam and Jake who attended St. Alban's Elementary. Paul Larson lived on the outskirts of the ritzy Hawk residential zone, and both of his parents frequently worked overtime to pay for the tuition that the Banks and McGill Families did not need to struggle for.

"Yo, Mo!"

Adam responded to McGill's greetng with a smile as he approached the group of children, all of whom wore some kind of lightweight jacket. McGill, unsurprisingly, wore his Hawks jacket.

"Hey, Jake. What's up?

"Not much, man. Excited about the party later on?"

"Ugh. Don't remind me."

Philip Banks had agreed to host the annual pre-season dinner for Hawk parents and players. The vast Banks Residence was an ideal venue, and on this special occasion, Philip even splurged for catering. McGill had been looking forward to it for weeks, and he could not understand Adam's lack of enthusiasm.

"I don't get how you could have anything against a party," he declared. "All our teammates will be there, it's gonna be awesome!"

Adam shrugged. He liked his teammates, but he disliked the noise and crowds that came with parties. At least in hockey, the crowds were separated by a nice, thick wall of Lexan.

"Meh. It'll be nice to hang out with the guys, but I'm not looking forward to Coach's boring speech – or all the even more boring grown-up talk."

McGill shook his head before sticking out his tongue.

"Whatever. Party-pooper."

Before Adam could respond, he heard the rumble of the approaching school bus, and with it, the jockeying of the kids for position. Everyone wanted to be first on the bus so they could have the seat of their choice. But Jake McGill was the biggest of the group, and he was not about to let a bunch of 'little twerps' get in his way.

"Move it!" He barked, grabbing an 8-year old boy and violently throwing him to the back of the pack.

"You heard the man!" Adam chirpped, shoving a 7-year old girl to the side.

McGill stomped on a different 8-year old's feet and flashed a menacing glare at the rest of the group. As his friend Larson had pointed out before, respect had to be earned every year. Simply wearing Hawk black was not enough to get other kids to submit. They needed regular reminders that "might makes right," as the defenseman liked to put it.

The group had submitted by the time the bus stopped and opened its door.

"Lead the way, Mo," McGill ushered his friend forward, getting between Adam and the rest of the pack.

"Gladly."

With a haughty thrust of the chin, Adam stepped onto the bus and made his way to the back row, where the tough kids always sat. This seating choice put him closer to where the public school kids normally sat, but that did not matter. He had the whole school day to assert his dominance over his St. Alban's classmates. The bus rides were his only opportunity to remind the grittier public school kids who their betters were, and Adam relished the prospect of rubbing their noses in it. He was immediately joined by McGill. The humbled group of kids who had got beaten and shoved to the back of the line moments earlier then made their way onto the bus, all of whom took care to sit up front, away from the Hawk duo and close to the bus driver.

 _Good,_ McGill observed the seating choice of his cowed peers with a smug grin from the back next to Adam. The powerfully-built forward gleefully awaited the arrival of the tougher public school kids at the next stop, along with Paul Larson. Having already feasted on minnows, Jake McGill was ready to take on a shark or two.

The bus rolled out of the stop and began to rumble toward the next one. The boundaries of Hawk territory had shifted a bit to include rougher areas in between posh Edina and gritty Minneapolis, and this was where Larson waited – the lone St. Alban's student among the group of blue collar kids waiting at the stop.

Adam looked at the Hawks' defensive guru and beamed with pride for his friend. Alone and among a tougher crowd, Paul Larson had already proven his dominance and stood at the front of the line waiting to get on the bus. Despite their strength in numbers, none of the other kids were able to get the edge on Larson, and they formed an orderly, if sullen queue behind the taciturn defenseman.

Climbing aboard, he saw McGill's enthusiastic waves from the back before quietly making his way over. Taking his seat on the empty back bench across the aisle from his fellow Hawks, Larson noticed that none of the kids at his stop dared to sit anywhere near the trio. In fact, there remained two rows of empty benches that served as a buffer zone between the Hawks and the others.

"Hey Paul," McGill greeted the defenseman. "You doin' alright? I'm sorry about your dog, man."

Larson shrugged as his blank face stared back at McGill.

"This sort of thing happens."

Adam, who had known Robin well, was shocked that his friend could be so nonchalant about the death of the sweet-natured chocolate lab.

"It's really sad though," he pointed out. "I'm sorry too, Paul."

Larson casually brushed some long, sandy locks out of his eyes before continuing. His mother had been unable to get an appointment at the barber's on the day before school, so he was still quite shaggy. After going through the emotional wringer over the holiday weekend, he really did not have anything left.

"Whatever," he shrugged again. "It's like when a goldfish dies. You flush it down the toilet and you move on."

McGill stared at Larson in disbelief. The forward wore his heart on his sleeve, and he often found it difficult to understand Larson, who was a much cooler customer. Sensing the discomfort of his friends, Larson tried to assure them that he was alright.

"We're getting a new dog soon," he announced. "It'll be a boy. The Old Man says boys are better hunters anyway."

Adam nodded without saying a word. Bill Larson had always scared him, and the burly prison guard's presence was another reason why he was not excited about the upcoming party at his house. McGill shared Adam's anxiety over Bill, but he had never been able to get his friend Paul to open up about his sinister father. Whenever conversation involved his Old Man, Larson made a point to keep his answers cool and terse – never inviting questions.

Several stops later, the bus had gradually filled near capacity, and only two benches remained empty: the two directly in front of the Golden Trio. The group of students at the final stop squeezed into the front and middle benches, only to leave big Harry Sheridan standing. But the husky 11-year old did not fear the Hawks as the others did, and he brazenly approached the bench directly in front of Larson.

"Hey Creepzilla," he jeered. "Sorry to hear about your pooch. Did you _cry_ about it?"

Larson coldly stared back at his grinning tormentor, but Sheridan was not intimidated.

"Aw, did I hurt your _feelings?_ "

"Shut up you fat twerp!" McGill snapped. "If Mr. Larson hadn't buried the dog, you would have ended up eating it anyway!"

Sheridan glared at McGill.

"Was I talking to you, Saint Patty?"

McGill shot up from his seat, but before he could reach over and give Sheridan a pasting, he heard the sixth grader yelp in pain, then observed a look of pure anguish wash over the boy's round face. Larson had pinched two of Sheridan's neck and shoulder pressure points with his icy fingers. The defenseman then jammed a finger at a sensitive point along the spine just above the waist.

"Gaaaah! Stop!" The sixth grader pleaded.

Larson's stony face remained unmoved by his prey's suffering.

"Find another seat."

Sheridan got to his feet without breathing another word, desperate to get away from the quiet but menacing boy half his size. Before the other students could object, Sheridan squeezed into a bench with three other students closer to the center of the bus. The Golden Trio's buffer zone was to remain intact for the rest of the trip to school.

Adam had a wondrous look in his eyes as he grinned at the defenseman.

"That was so _awesome!_ You _have_ to show me how you do that some time."

Larson shrugged, ever stoic.

"It's nothing. My Old Man uses it at work all the time. Hurts the bejesus out of the prisoners, but doesn't leave a mark."

Adam still had not wiped the impressed grin off his face. As much as he liked McGill, he found Larson's silent grit deeply impressive. Being a shy but determined boy, Adam saw Larson as the kind of guy he could be if only he toughened-up and learned some of the defenseman's moves. Adam was not about to let his friend forget about the need to train him in some of life's darker arts.

"Seriously, Paul. Show me sometime."

Larson nodded as he extended a clenched fist toward his fellow Hawks.

"You got it. Us against the world?"

"US AGAINST THE WORLD!" Adam and McGill roared in response as they bumped fists with Larson, drawing worried looks from the other school children.

 _At least those losers know their place,_ Adam thought, observing his frightened peers deep sense of satisfaction.

* * *

Having succeeded in parking his black Jeep Grand Cherokee between two cars that were each worth more than his annual salary, Bill Larson let out a sigh, relieved that he had not scratched the vehicles parked on the side of the road by the Banks Residence. He took one quick look in his visor mirror to make sure that the remainder of his hair covered as much of his scalp as possible, and was satisfied that the Brylcreem would prevent any embarrassing hair slides.

After straightening his red necktie, he looked over to his wife, Maria, who wore a baby blue blazer over a cream-colored dress. Her neck was adorned with a fake pearl necklace, much to her husband's dismay.

"They're gonna notice that those ain't real," he warned.

She shrugged.

"I'm sure it's not a big deal. Besides, if I take them off, it'll leave a lot of exposed neck that will just look funny."

Bill growled slightly but did not object. He looked at his son, Paul, seated in the back, through the rearview mirror. Maria had gotten the boy to the barber's just in time for him to come back home and get dressed for the annual pre-season party at the Banks Residence. Paul's dark blond hair was neatly combed in a left-to-right part, and he wore a navy blue blazer with pleated khaki slacks, a white dress shirt, and a red tie matching his father's.

"Grab the wine," Bill instructed his son.

"Yes, sir."

And with that, Bill alighted from his Jeep. Between his charcoal gray suit, and his grim visage, he looked like a man headed to a funeral. Given the people in store for him, he would have preferred the company of the dead. His wife and son immediately followed, with Paul carrying a bottle of claret in a black gift bag. The three of them made their way out of the street and onto the long driveway, observing three smartly-dressed men with brown hair lounging on the front porch.

Philip Banks was enjoying a tumbler of single malt Scotch in the company of his fellow Hawk fathers, Frederick Stevens and Alexander Brown, when he observed the Larsons begin their long trek up the driveway.

"Look, there's that boorish prison guard," Frederick scoffed, turning to Alexander. "Quick, let's head to the back."

"Too late," Alexander replied. "He sees us."

Philip shook his head in disapproval. He cared little for 'William' Larson, but even less for snobbery. Given his own humble origins, Philiip Banks was unusually sensitive to it for such a wealthy man.

"Remain seated," he ordered his companions. "You are gentlemen and you will treat William as one as well."

Frederick gave an impudent snort at the thought of Bill Larson being treated as a gentleman, earning an icy glare from Philip as result.

"Forgive me, Philip."

Chastened, Frederick remained seated in between Philip and Alexander. Once the Larsons were close, the three gentlemen stood to greet the new arrivals. Maria and Paul put on broad smiles, as ordered by Bill who struggled to turn his frown into something that appeared smile-like. The results were not pretty.

 _What a ghastly man_ , Frederick thought, observing Bill's coarse features twist into a creepy smile.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Bill began with a slight bow of the head.

The three Hawk fathers nodded and murmured polite greetings.

"Paul, give Mr. Banks the claret," Bill instructed his son in a gentler-than-usual tone.

"Yes, sir," the 9-year old defenseman replied before handing the gift bag to his host.

"Thank you," Philip nodded.

As a prison guard, Bill Larson had developed finely-honed people-reading skills. He could smell fear and deception from miles away. But he struggled to get a read on the stoic Philip Banks. He had no idea if Philip really appreciated the gift, or if he thought it was just some cheap doodad that the only non-professional Hawk father could afford.

"That's a Bordeaux," Bill explained, hoping to impress the gentlemen. "A region in France. So you know that's good shit…I mean stuff…I mean wine!"

Alexander cracked a smirk at the burly prison guard's nervous antics, but the other two maintained their neutral expressions. While most people in Bill's life thought him scary, Alexander thought him beneath contempt. And he resented having to keep company with such a coarse, ignorant, and pointless man. Alexander Brown wielded his tiny patrician smirk like a claymore, and Bill felt as though he had just been cut in half.

Breaking out in a profuse sweat, he reached for a handkerchief. Finding none in any of his suit pockets, he took the folded red cloth out of his breast pocket and used it to dab his forehead.

 _Oh, how tacky,_ Frederick Stevens tried and failed to suppress a disdainful snort, prompting even more sweat from Bill.

"I'm sure it's excellent, William," Philip began evenly before shooting eye daggers at his two companions, annoyed by their insolence. He then turned to Paul.

"You remember the way to the basement, don't you? Adam and the rest of your teammates are down there."

The young defenseman nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Good, go and join your friends," Philip instructed the child. "Dinner will be ready in about one hour."

He opened the front door and ushered Paul in, before turning to Bill and Maria.

"The party is out back, on the patio," he announced. "I'll lead the way."

"Thank you," Maria replied, trying to take her husband's hand.

But Bill slapped her hand away, the awkward wine episode having exacerbated his natural irritability. The couple followed Philip into the house and to the back while Alexander and Frederick remained on the front porch.

"One almost feels sorry for the wife and child," Alexander mused as he grabbed his tumbler from a wooden end table before taking a sip.

"What do you mean _almost?"_ Frederick asked. "You saw those deranged eyes. That beast looks like he enjoys the company of sheep far too much."

Alexander choked on his Scotch as he stifled laughter.

"Oh, you _are_ wicked."

* * *

Paul gingerly made his way down the stairs to the basement. The incident on the front porch had the effect of making him physically ill. He had seen his father's evil eyes before Philip had ushered him inside. Whenever those blue eyes had white hot fire in them, it always ended badly for Paul and Maria.

The 9-year old feared a long, violent night once he got home.

The dazed defenseman had not even noticed that he had left McGill's outstretched hand hanging once he had reached the spacious, carpeted basement. All the Hawks were there, all wearing dress shirts, neckties, and dress slacks. Some wore blazers as well.

"What's up, Iceman?" McGill greeted his outwardly cold, tough friend.

Larson snapped out of his stupor.

"The ceiling," he replied with his usual diffidence.

McGill laughed as he gave his friend an affable clap on the back.

"You're so weird, but I like you anyway."

He beckoned Larson to follow with his head to the air hockey table.

"C'mon, Iceman. Stevens and Brown think they're hot stuff. Let's go frost them!"

Larson felt a brief surge of nervous adrenalin as the names 'Stevens' and 'Brown' brought back those dreadful moments on the front porch. His dad's elitist tormentors had been those boys' fathers. But the defenseman managed to keep outwardly calm. The murderous hatred that he felt in that moment for two of his own teammates was nowhere to be seen.

But internally, he smoldered.

"Let's do it," Larson deadpanned, following his friend to the air hockey table.

Stevens and Brown each called out friendly greetings to Larson as he approached the table with McGill. Larson did not breathe a word in reply, but allowed his obsidian eyes to lock onto the faces of Scott Stevens and Jason Brown. The defenseman's dark intensity made the platinum-haired patrician boys nervous, but they did their best to hide it. Hawks always did all that they could to hide any signs of weakness.

The puck dropped and Larson played with a lightning-fast ferocity, sending the puck flying past his befuddled opponents with a speed that made their heads spin. The defenseman had not bothered to include his friend McGill in the game at all, but the taller boy did not mind. McGill liked to win, and he liked to see Larson be happy. Stevens and Brown were defeated in very short order.

"Good game, guys," Stevens offered.

"Thanks, good game," McGill replied.

Larson trained his malevolent eyes back onto his opponents.

"Again."

"I'm sorry?" Brown asked.

"Play again."

The other three boys looked at Larson with concern. Even McGill was worried.

"I'm not asking you, I'm _telling_ you," Larson seethed. "Play again _."_

A nervous Stevens nodded.

"Sure thing, Paul," his voice cracked under Larson's ebony gaze.

The four Hawks began a new game; and once again, Larson played like a man on a mission, giving no quarter. He wanted to humiliate the sons of those snobs whose haughtiness had enraged his father. He intended to force repeated games and repeated defeats on the duo, and if they stopped playing, he had other means to satisfy his rage. The pair of rich Hawks did not dare turn him down, a fact that disappointed the defenseman. He desperately wanted to rain his fists down upon them, to beat them until they cried, so they could feel just a little bit of what he knew he would feel later that night.


	3. Total Domination

**Chapter Three: Total Domination**

Adam, Larson, and McGill alighted from the bus and made their way to the school's main entrance. The first couple weeks of school had come and gone, and with September drawing to a close, Opening Day of Pee-Wee hockey had arrived. The Golden Trio just had to get through the school day, then they would be back on the ice where they belonged. Hawk practices had begun in earnest after the pre-season party at the Banks Residence, but the boys were chafing at the bit to play real games with real opponents.

Adam was particularly desperate to get off to a strong start. With middle school hockey around the corner, Adam had just two precious weeks on the ice before his older brother Michael could overshadow him. Michael had cast a long shadow over his younger brother for Adam's entire life, a fact that Coach Reilly was merciless in exploiting. Reilly knew that the specter of the perfect, magnificent Michael Banks kept Adam permanently hungry for unattainable glory. Number 9 constantly pushed himself to be the best that he could possibly be. But it could never measure up to the flawless dominance of Michael Banks, the greatest player who ever wore Hawk black and blue.

The Golden Trio had entered the school building and began to make their way down the hall in silence, each of them privately mulling over the start of the season. As Larson had pointed out to his friends, other kids found silence intimidating, and the three boys – complete with their Hawk training jackets – drew worried looks from all directions. Given that he never felt that he had anything interesting to say, Adam took great comfort in knowing that he did not need to say anything in order to appear intimidating.

McGill brooded over his own demons as he continued to walk between his two best friends. As the biggest, strongest, and most outspoken member of the Golden Trio, Jake McGill was the leader of the pack – or so he liked to think. The attention and deference Number 7 received from Adam and Larson were like opiates that dulled the pain that came with being invisible at home. His parents rarely knew, and never cared what he was up to. Anticipation of the next drink dominated their thoughts instead. Their son's best efforts were wasted on them, and their drunken antics inflicted crushing humiliation on him whenever they were around his friends.

McGill clenched his fist as he contemplated the unfairness of his situation. He had been so lost in self-pity that he was unaware of the fact that he had walked directly into a 9-year old girl, causing her to drop all of her books. As she knelt down to gather them, McGill snapped out of his stupor.

"Watch where you're going!" He barked, sending the books back to the ground with a swipe of his arm.

"Yeah!" Adam agreed, kicking one of the books down the hall.

The petite, chestnut-haired girl looked up at the Hawks, who were visibly annoyed by having to breathe the same air as her. All three of the boys were tall for their age, McGill in particular. She knew of their reputation and had always done her best to avoid them, but was unlucky enough to run into them on this particular day.

"Well?!" McGill demanded. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

She knew that the bully was expecting an apology of some sort, despite the collision being entirely his own fault. Saying sorry would be a little thing that could make her life a little easier, but all she wanted to do was to gather her books and get away from the infamous Golden Trio as quickly as her legs would allow. She started collecting her books again.

"Little twerp has no respect," McGill growled, swatting the books out of the girl's arms a second time.

Adam yanked on the girl's braided pony tail, drawing a yelp and a cry of pain.

"Nice one, Mo!" McGill smirked, holding out his hand for Adam to slap, which the center did.

The girl straightened up and stared directly at her tormentors, realizing that there was no point in trying to retrieve her books as long as the Hawks had their talons in her.

"Why do you have to be so mean?"

McGill let out a mirthless laugh, then looked sideways to Larson.

"Tell her, Paul."

"It's a rough world."

The girl gave the Hawks a confused look, but those four simple words made perfect sense to the boys. It certainly made sense to Larson, who repeated those words like a mantra whenever the Golden Trio inflicted suffering on others. After all, if the cold, harsh, and unforgiving world _gave_ no mercy, why should it expect to receive any in return?

"It's a rough world," McGill repeated. "Which is why the three of us need some chocolate milk to make it a sweeter place – so hand over your lunch money, NOW!"

Despite being a busy hallway, the kids who had observed this spectacle did their best to go around, leaving the girl to fend for herself against the Golden Trio. With no chance of aid from other kids, and no teacher in sight, she accepted defeat with a resigned sigh before handing over the cash.

McGill flashed a triumphant smirk at his victim who would go hungry that day.

"That wasn't so hard, was it? Pleasure doin' business with you." He turned to his friends, beckoning them forward with his head. "Let's go, fellas."

As the Golden Trio began to strut past the girl, McGill added a parting shot from over his shoulder.

"And pick up your books! They don't belong on the floor!"

Adam chuckled at his friend's quip. Not only did he admire McGill's brashness, but he thought that his wingman's sense of humor was wickedly delightful. Combined with the sense of strength that Adam derived from his friendship with Larson and McGill, the center felt absolutely bullet proof whenever he had his favorite Hawks by his side. During moments like this, Adam Banks was a long way from being the inadequate middle child who was not as athletic as Michael, or as clever as Eric. But these moments never lasted long, and they demanded a steady stream of victims to fuel the bullying that brought these glorious moments into being.

The Golden Trio finally arrived at the fourth grade wing. Although they had lunch and gym class at the same time, the three Hawks had separate core teachers and had to spend most of the school day apart. This was always their least favorite moment of the day.

"Later, Mo….Iceman," McGill bade farewell to his friends using his pet names. "See you guys at lunch!"

Adam nodded as he extended a clenched fist, which McGill bumped.

"Yeah, see you at lunch," Adam replied. "Should be a good one. Tommy Walton always has homemade blonde brownies – they go really well with chocolate milk," he added with a fiendish grin.

McGill chuckled.

"Something to look forward to. Later, guys!"

* * *

Jack Reilly stoically observed his Hawks from the team bench as his young soldiers went about their pre-game warm-ups. He worked as a high school history teacher for most of the day, then coached Pee-Wee hockey into the evenings. As a young man, Reilly had been a phenomenal center, and had worn the number 9 throughout his playing days. His coaches, and even an NHL scout had told him that he had a real chance of going pro.

But then he fell in love.

His childless marriage broke up as he neared the end of his physical prime, his window of opportunity into the world of professional hockey having become permanently shuttered. In the two-and-a-half decades since, Reilly dreamed the impossible dream of starting over at the beginning – before he had come to the fork in the road where he chose a woman over hockey. He obsessively drove his players to be the very best that they could possibly be, so one day they too could have a chance at making the pros.

He lived vicariously through his players, and the opportunity to set boys on a life path of hockey glory was what Jack Reilly lived for. Hence, he declined opportunities to coach older, less impressionable boys. He knew that it was far easier to mold hockey warriors at the Pee Wee level, before teenage hormones drove young men to distraction, as they had in his own case.

Jack Reilly simply could not understand how anyone could not share his passion for the game, and he winced as he looked from his bench to the other side of the ice where the Hawks' opponents went about their pre-game routine. It was not much of a routine. In fact, they were not much in the way of opposition either.

Reilly could not hide his contempt as he observed the rag-tag collection of street urchins who comprised District Five aimlessly frolic about on the ice as they shared jokes and avoided anything that could be construed as real practice. These kids were not even properly equipped. They lacked a common uniform, or even a common color, and their pads were a shabby collection of football and baseball equipment, generously stuffed with crumpled-up sheets of old newspaper.

Reilly's gaze wandered from the D5 'players' on the ice and over to his left, where his coaching opposite stood. He took in the sight of the latest reprobate who had been court-ordered into community service, and was relieved to see that it was no one he knew. Most of Reilly's boys moved on to great things, even if it was not Division 1 college hockey or the NHL. The thought of one of his players growing up to become a bearded, shabbily-dressed charge of the State was repugnant to him.

Reilly stepped onto the ice as the drills wound down in anticipation of the National Anthem. After standing to attention next to his Hawks during the Anthem, he ordered his players to huddle up close.

"Alright, men. I'm not gonna lie….these chumps are hopeless."

The Hawks responded with gleeful, triumphant murmurs – a bad move on their part.

"Hey, hey hey, knock it off!" Reilly growled.

His players piped down at once.

"Because these dopes are so bad, anything less than 15 goals from you guys I'll consider a total failure," he looked over to his goalie, Kevin Wise. "And you damn well better not give anything up, young man."

Wise swallowed nervously, but nodded. "I won't, Coach."

"Good. Alright, bring it in," Reilly extended his arm. His players mimicked the gesture.

"Win, win, win…."

"WIN, WIN, WIN, WIN, WIN, WIN!"

Charlie Conway, the 9-year old leader of the D5 pack observed with apprehension the intensity of the Hawks. But he did his best to hide his fear as he gathered his friends together in a huddle. Their latest coach, a man named Hank Strickland, stood stationary on the bench – away from the players. Having tried to yell his players into shape, he had largely given up on coaching. But the kids could count on him to let flow an abusive torrent of profanity and insults after the game.

"Come on, guys," Charlie began, extending his arm. "Win, win, win…"

But the sight of the fearsome, well-drilled, all-black Hawks put a damper on D5's enthusiasm. There were a few light murmurs of 'win,' but Charlie could tell that he had not been able to give his teammates the boost they needed.

The first lines took to the ice, with the blond forward Guy Germaine at center and the African-American brothers Jesse and Terry Hall on the wings. Lester 'Les' Averman and Dave Karp were on defense. Greg Goldberg, the wisecracking but timid goalie, settled into position in front of the D5 net with his skimpy padding that left little wonder about why he disliked the concept of goaltending. Terrifying though the shots were, the net was the only place for the weakest skater on the team, and Goldberg got into position in the manner of a convict getting strapped to an electric chair.

Adam lined-up against Guy, while McGill and Stevens lined up on the wings. Larson and Brown were on defense, determined to make the game a non-event for their goalie, Kevin Wise.

McGill could not help but snigger at the sight of black kids playing hockey; but was careful not to verbalize his prejudice, knowing that one of the stricter officiating crews was on duty.

The puck dropped and Adam immediately won possession before driving his shoulder into Guy's chest and putting the blond forward on his back. The Hawk center tore into the D5 zone, where he encountered Averman sharing a joke with Karp that the latter did not appear to understand. Adam blew by the pair without encountering any resistance and made straight for Goldberg.

"Hey, hey, take it easy man," Goldberg pleaded.

But Adam was in the zone. He deked once, drew back, and fired. Goldberg lurched away from the incoming puck, allowing it to sail in.

The goal siren roared and Adam's linemates gathered round to give him a congratulatory hug.

"Way to go, Mo!" McGill called out affectionately.

The same sequence of events happened another four times in a row during the opening minutes of the first period. Adam won the face off, then flew past his disengaged opponents before putting the puck in the net as Goldberg desperately tried to avoid getting hit. 5-0, Hawks.

At last, D5 won a faceoff. Guy eluded Adam with a spin move and charged into the Hawk zone. Larson backtracked to build up momentum, then barreled into the D5er, causing Guy to lose possession and crash onto the ice belly-up.

"Yeah, Iceman!" McGill cheered. "Nice Arctic blast!"

Jesse recovered the puck, much to McGill's fury.

"Oh, no you don't!"

McGill leveled into his D5 opposite, sending Jesse into the boards with a violent crash. John Hall, Jesse's father, was one of the few D5 parents in attendance, and looked grim as he watched his battered son stagger back to his feet.

McGill had already broken into the D5 zone, and he approached Goldberg one-on-one. The forward teed-up and let her rip. The puck smashed into Goldberg's flimsy right knee pad and ricocheted into the goal. The goalie tried to shake off the pain as the Hawks gathered round the net to celebrate their 6th goal.

"Alright, Maggots," D5 Coach Strickland growled. "CHANGE IT UP!"

Charlie led the second line onto the ice, hoping to get something going against the Hawk second line. He was joined by his linemates Connie Moreau and Peter Mark. They were greeted at center ice by the menacingly-named Fanger, Stickler, and Harek.

Despite the appalling situation that D5 had found itself in, Charlie grinned as he remembered Averman's quip about the Hawk forwards not bothering to change their names after they had left Middle Earth.

"What are you so freaking happy about?!" Fanger demanded.

Charlie shrugged. "One ring to rule them all."

Connie and Peter chuckled, drawing the fury of the Hawks, who moved-in threateningly.

"Hey, hey, break it up!" A referee got between the opposing forwards before a fight could break out. "Let's play some hockey!"

The players lined up, the ref dropped the puck, and Charlie won possession.

Fanger stuck to him like white on rice, and as he smothered Charlie in coverage, their legs got tangled, causing Charlie to crash to the ice and draw a whistle.

"Two minutes, tripping. Black, 56."

"WHAT?!" Reilly protested from the bench. "Their legs were tangled!"

The ref shot the Hawk coach a defiant look.

"I'll make the calls around here, okay, buddy?"

Reilly hated it when the officials had the nerve to stand up to him – seldom though that was. As volunteers, Pee-Wee refs did not get paid nearly enough to deal with Reilly's tantrums, so they usually turned the other cheek. But this one had held his ground. Reilly turned away from the penalty box and popped the collar of his training jacket as he fumed. Once the ref had skated off, Reilly turned back to the penalty box.

"Next time you get your legs get tangled, you take the fall! You got that?!"

"Yes, Coach," Fanger replied sheepishly.

Reilly popped his collar again as he focused his attention back to the ice. If his second line failed to kill the power play, he would personally see to it that the Hawks' next week of practice would be pure, unadulterated hell.

The teams lined-up for the faceoff in the Hawk zone. The puck dropped, and once again, Charlie won possession. He drew a double team, which left Connie wide open.

"GM-Chrysler!" Reilly howled.

He could not believe that his players were actually double-teaming a player when they were already a man short.

Noticing the Hawk mistake, Charlie sailed the puck over to Connie who took a shot. Only the quick glove of Kevin Wise prevented what should have been an easy goal for D5. Reilly bit down on his lip. He was pleased with his goalie, but furious with his skaters for being so sloppy. And with that one mistake, the Hawk second line condemned the entire team to half an hour of suicide sprints every practice for the next week.

 _They're lucky it's not a whole hour, those pansies._

Eventually, the Hawks killed the penalty; Charlie had managed to get another shot on goal, but Wise made the save. The Hawk second line atoned for their early sloppiness with three goals, bringing the Hawk lead to nine.

The miserable game could not end soon enough for hapless D5. Each of the Golden Trio had managed to score by the end of the game. Adam piled-up a stunning nine goals, scoring half his team's total. McGill had gotten a hat trick, and Larson showed off the power and accuracy of his slap-shot by firing two perfect bullets from just inside the D5 blue line.

The roar of the final game horn was music to Charlie's ears. The Hawks had humiliated his team 18-0. But D5's relief at the conclusion of the game was washed away the instant they gathered around their coach. A livid Coach Strickland tore into his players, drawing frowns, slumped shoulders, and even a few misty eyes with his viciousness. The furious rant would have gone on longer, but the raging coach felt a sharp pain in his chest, followed by a gasp.

"I better sit down."

"Are you okay, Coach?" Charlie asked, his soft features lined with worry. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

Strickland shook his head.

"I just need to take it easy. Go on and get dressed."

Charlie nodded. "Okay. Let's go, guys."

As Charlie led his bruised and bloody teammates into their locker room, Strickland recovered his breath. When he had received his sentence to community service, he had heard all sorts of horror stories about District 5 hockey. But he had been unable to believe that any team could really be _that_ bad. Of course, there were the rumors of all the team's former coaches suffering heart attacks; but he figured that was just an exaggeration.

Now he feared that this season could put him in an early grave.


	4. The Home Front

**Chapter Four: The Home Front**

Late October arrived and the Hawks continued to steamroll their opponents. The Jets, the Hornets, the Panthers, the Cardinals, and the Huskies – had it not been for the different team colors, they all would have seemed the same to the Hawks. The championship game was still a ways off, but the whole season seemed like a mere formality to the Hawk players. Of course they would be champions. Their destiny was as inevitable as snowfall in February. To challenge his players, Reilly constantly had to raise goal targets, and demanded ever-increasing margins of victory for his Hawks.

As he never ceased to remind his boys, _It's not worth winning….IF YOU CAN'T WIN BIG!_

Sadly for the Golden Trio, there was more to life than hockey and hijinks. School work, for one, demanded a great deal of their time and attention. With Adam and Larson growing up in strict households, maintaining excellent grades was a necessity of life – in Larson's case, it was an _urgent_ necessity of life. Producing a straight-A report card gave Bill Larson one less excuse to lash his son with a belt.

McGill's parents were less interested in grades, or really anything involved their son – so his natural instinct was to coast through his schoolwork. But that would have deprived him of the opportunity to go over to Adam's house for study sessions with his two best friends. And that was why he joined Adam on the walk to the Banks Residence from the bus stop on a Monday afternoon – the only weekday when the Hawks had no practice – in happy anticipation of the Golden Trio's weekly study hall.

"Don't worry," Adam assured McGill, his breath frozen in the crisp October air. "We're almost there."

McGill nodded, but he did not mind the walk in the cold. The Hawk pair still wore their black training jackets, although they did not provide much warmth once Minnesota's short autumn began winding down and the air began to bite. But the power and respect that those jackets commanded made a little bit of shivering a price that was well worth paying.

"It's alright," McGill replied. "The longer it takes to get there, the less time I'm stuck working on that stupid math poem."

Adam chuckled. "Too bad you didn't get Mrs. Hollis. She hates poetry too much to make us read any. We certainly don't have to write any….especially about _math."_

"Don't get me wrong," McGill began, the massive Banks Residence coming into view. "I'm all for everyone sharing their stupid poems in front of the class – it gives me plenty of ammo for later. But I can't really make fun of their stuff if mine's just as bad."

"Ha! I'd _love_ it if those little twerps made fun of your poem," Adam replied. "That would make beating them up all the more fun. Us against the world, right?"

"Yeah, man! Us against the world!"

Adam extended a clenched fist which McGill bumped. McGill gave Adam a warm smile that surprised him.

"What?" Adam asked, returning the grin.

"Nothing man," McGill replied, the grin still in place. "You're the best. That's all."

Although Adam had to look up to McGill, that last comment made the soft-spoken center feel ten feet tall. Even when Adam was at his most dominant on the ice, he could never quite measure up to the lofty Michael Banks comparisons. After his 9-goal thumping of District 5, Adam received a typical 'congratulations' from Reilly, who pointed out that Michael Banks routinely scored over _a dozen_ goals in a game.

"Magic Mo, Number 9," McGill continued. "The terror of losers everywhere. He'll out-skate, out-score, out-hit, and flat out destroy anyone brave enough – or dumb enough – to take him on! Oh, and Mike Modano is pretty good too."

Adam blushed at his best friend's effusive praise. McGill may have disliked poetry, but Adam certainly believed that Number 7 had a way with words. So moving were McGill's sentiments that Adam genuinely felt like Mike Modano's equal. But this feeling did not and could not last for long. Especially as Adam took in the sight of the _other_ Mike, his older brother, practicing his footwork on their long driveway.

The tall, blond-haired 13-year old had orange cones all set up in dizzying patterns, but he whizzed around them on his roller blades with a bored look on his face. The dazzling moves that Adam could not hope to mimic even in his dreams seemed like a bland workout routine to Michael. Sensing his friend's feeling of inadequacy, McGill put a comforting hand on Adam's shoulder as the pair walked, causing the two friends to stop.

"Don't worry about him, Mo," McGill began. "Michael has to _pretend_ he's bored because he knows that you're creeping up on him…and he can't handle it."

"Thanks, Jake," Adam replied with a grateful smile.

The two best friends were about to resume their walk up the drive way when Michael Banks began boring down on them. In one swift, effortless motion, the 8th grader put on the brakes and stopped within inches of Adam and McGill, causing the two to flinch. The older boy laughed at their nervousness.

In typical Banks form, Michael was tall, sandy-haired, blue-eyed and fair-skinned. He had a lean but powerful frame that, combined with his unrivaled skill set, made him formidable on the ice. Already strikingly handsome, Michael was the most popular crush at Sienna Middle School; he was sure to develop into a real heartbreaker come high school.

And he was well aware of all of that.

"Good afternoon, _ladies_ ," he sneered, noticing that the Golden Trio was one short. "Where's the creepy one?"

McGill's fist clenched, causing the older boy to chuckle.

"Don't worry about him," Adam whispered to his friend. "Remember your own advice."

McGill nodded, but it took every ounce of his willpower not to take a swing at Michael. That nasty little moniker, 'the creepy one,' made McGill's blood boil. He knew – to some extent – how hard Bill Larson was on his good friend Paul, and he hated it whenever anyone talked trash about him. Paul Larson may not have been the most socially-adept boy in the world, but McGill knew that his friend deserved a much better hand than the one life had dealt him.

"Aw, what's wrong, _Princess?_ Did I say something mean about your creepy boyfriend?"

And with that, Michael Banks had officially crossed the line. McGill swung at the older boy's face, but the 13-year old dodged the punch and responded by tackling McGill. The 9-year old landed belly-up on the driveway, his scream stifled by Michael's hand.

The older boy flashed a sadistic grin before he drove his knees into his victim's stomach, knocking the air out of McGill. Michael proceeded to yank McGill's head up by the hair with one hand, then clenched a fist with the other and drew back. Before he could give the younger boy a knuckle sandwich, Michael yelped in pain.

McGill inhaled and tried to recover his breath once Michael released the pressure on his stomach. Michael tumbled over with Adam on top, who had begun attacking his older brother's most sensitive pressure points.

"What the hell?! Stop it, stop it!"

But Adam ignored Michael's pleas for mercy and continued to work his way down, having started at the neck and shoulders, drawing anguished shrieks that gave the 9-year old a wicked sense of pleasure. Adam continued pinching and jamming pressure points, giving his older brother the feeling of having knives driven into his flesh from a thousand different directions. Had Larson been there to witness the spectacle, he would have been proud of his pupil, who had obviously mastered the technique that he had taught him.

"Stooop! Pleaaaase!"

Now intoxicated by his brother's agony, Adam flashed a wicked grin while he continued his assault. He was running out of nerves to pinch, and Adam thought seriously about choking Michael once that happened. With the amazing, perfect, and _mean_ Michael Banks temporarily paralyzed, Adam would have been a fool not to press his rare advantage and _really_ make his lifelong tormentor suffer.

McGill could see that Adam was working his way toward Michael's groin, and even Number 7 felt uncomfortable going that far with the punishment.

"Adam, come on," McGill placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "That's enough – he's learned his lesson."

But Adam persisted, getting closer and closer to the most sensitive of regions. The soft-spoken center was pouring nine years of pure bile onto his older brother, and found it impossible to get the venomous contents back in the bottle once the top had blown off. Having been beaten up by Michael so many times over the years, Adam was reluctant to fight him at first. But having learned Larson's pressure-point attack, Adam's inhibitions melted away after Michael attacked McGill, and the sight of his bullying big brother squirming in agony was more addictive than anything he had ever known.

Although McGill was the bigger boy, it took all of his strength to peel his friend off of Michael, but he succeeded in his effort just in time.

Michael caught his breath and staggered to his feet, stunned by Adam's volcanic eruption. Sensing the older boy's moment of weakness, McGill seized on the opportunity to make a point.

"Don't mess with us, or Paul...ever...again," he warned, looking directly into Michael's terrified eyes. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to calm him down next time," McGill added, indicating a smoldering Adam with his head.

Michael was still dazed.

"Cat got your tongue, eh?" McGill asked. "Just nod, okay?"

Michael nodded.

"Good. Now get lost – and stay out of the library."

Michael flew up the driveway toward the garage on his rollerblades without breathing a word.

"Come on, Adam. Let's go," McGill ushered his friend forward to the main entrance of the house. "And thank you, by the way…y'know, for the help back there."

Adam had been so lost in rage and pleasure that he had forgotten why he had attacked his brother in the first place – to protect his best friend. He lazily nodded as he made the gradual return to earth and approached his house. The pair of Hawks did not exchange a single word as they entered, removed their shoes, and made their way to the mahogany-paneled library on the ground floor.

In addition to row after row of Philip's law books, the library housed a rich selection of fiction and non-fiction volumes that drew the envy of nearly every visitor to the house. The large, stately room also contained one of the mansion's several gas fireplaces, plush forest green carpeting, stunning Pre-Raphaelite replicas, and two solid-oak desks on opposite ends. Reddish-brown chesterfield sofas faced each other just in front of the fireplace and were separated by an elaborate Persian rug.

Philip had his own private office upstairs, where he spent most of his time while home. But he understood the importance that his class placed on things like a well-furnished library. While the library served as a status symbol for Philip, it served his sons as a place to do their homework. The soft sounds of Bach gently greeted Adam and McGill as they entered.

"Hey, Eric," McGill called out to the youngest, blondest Banks boy who was hard at work at one of the desks.

Eric nodded in reply. "Hey guys."

As the pair of Hawks made their way to the desk opposite of Eric, McGill noticed that Adam was still tense.

"Heh, dopey music you guys got here," McGill declared. "Where's your Vanilla Ice?"

Adam laughed, causing a wave of relief to wash over McGill.

"Mom and Dad call it the 'Mozart Effect.' They say it aids studying. But this isn't Mozart, so I don't know if it counts."

"Paul should use that as his theme song," McGill suggested _. "Ice, ice, baby too cold."_

Adam laughed even louder this time, causing Eric to give his older brother an annoyed look for distracting him.

"Sorry, Eric," Adam piped down at once, while Eric nodded and resumed his studies.

McGill smiled, satisfied that Adam had gotten the fury out of his system. Had the center still been enraged, he would have unleashed a ferocious torrent on the hapless little boy at the other end of the room. Instead, Adam politely quieted down.

"And you get _Too Legit to Quit_ as your theme," McGill offered.

"Does that mean I get to wear parachute pants?"

McGill chuckled, unsure which was funnier – the mental picture he had of Adam as MC Hammer, or how excited his friend sounded at the prospect of it.

"Sure thing, Mo. You'd rock the parachute pants."

With the earlier tension defused, 'Adam' was back to being 'Mo' to McGill.

The two friends continued to chat softly, getting no work done when Charlotte Banks led Paul Larson into the library.

"Adam, Jake," Charlotte called out. "Your friend is here!"

Adam's eyes widened, he realized that the doorbell had rung and that he had left his mother to get it, something he always tried to avoid when he knew that he had friends coming over. Seeing her son's anxiety, she offered an easy smile.

"Don't worry, Adam. Even non-hockey players have legs, you know."

After Adam and McGill gave Larson quick greetings, Charlotte called the boys to attention by clearing her throat.

"Do you boys want to stay for dinner? I can't risk my husband turning into a pumpkin by leaving all that pie just for him."

McGill fought back the urge to salivate at the thought of Mrs. Banks' home cooking. Technically it was her live-in housekeeper Penny who did the cooking, but Charlotte always got the credit as the hostess. And Charlotte's "cooking" was to die for. Back home, McGill was lucky if there was a TV dinner that he could throw into the microwave. Most nights he simply ate the excess goodies that he managed to steal from other kids during the lunch period while his parents went out and his sister hit the town with a date.

"I'd love to stay," McGill replied eagerly, before slowing down. "I mean…if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," Charlotte assured him, then looked over to Larson. "What about you, Paul?"

Larson shook his head.

"Thanks, but I have to be home at six, on the dot."

Charlotte frowned, but the queenly matriarch recovered her magnanimous air in an instant.

"Alright. I'll give you some biscuits to bring home though."

Now it was Larson's turn to fight back salivation. The Banks kitchen produced the the richest, buttery-est, chewiest biscuits he had ever known. But he remembered who he was going home to. Should the Old Man discover any snacks or other contraband, the consequences would be severe.

"Thanks, but you shouldn't go to such trouble."

Charlotte laughed amiably.

"Why do you boys think having an adult cook for you is so much trouble?"

Larson and McGill gave uncomfortable laughs in reply.

"Anyway, I've got work to do, and so do you three," Charlotte declared. "Dinner will be ready at six."

She turned on her heel and left. The Golden Trio gathered round one of the desks once the ornate door to the library closed behind Mrs. Banks. Larson was the most focused and task-oriented of the group, and now that the quiet Hawk defenseman had arrived, Adam and McGill knew that they would have to buckle down and get some real work done. Paul Larson was a loyal friend who Adam deeply admired, but the center knew that the defenseman was no ball of sunshine – especially when he sensed that others around him were slacking off.

Jake McGill was just happy to have his two best friends at his side. It did not matter to him if they were doing homework, talking, practicing, playing around, or beating the crap out of "annoying little twerps." Just being with Adam and Larson was all that mattered to the blustery but lonely forward. Despite the awful feeling of guilt that the thought induced, McGill secretly dreamed of his parents getting into a car accident or some other calamity, and getting adopted by the Banks Family. The luxurious mansion certainly felt more like home than his actual one did.

At about 5:30, Charlotte returned to the library with a cordless house phone in hand.

"Excuse me, Jake," she called out. "It's your father."

Jake could not contain his surprise, but got up and took the phone from Charlotte's outstretched hand.

"Hello?"

"Jakey, how's my favorite little bartender?" Jim McGill greeted his 9-year old. "I figured you'd be at Adam's when I saw you weren't home."

Before McGill could respond, his father continued.

"Come back home. My glass won't fill itself!"

Before McGill could protest, his father hung up. Looking back up at Charlotte, the boy's heart sank when he realized that he was about to miss out on one of the Banks Family's amazing dinners. But he put on a brave face and returned the phone to Charlotte without letting the disappointment he felt show on his face.

"Sorry to mess with your plans, Mrs. Banks. But Dad wants me home right now."

Larson looked up at the clock, then began to pack his things.

"I better get going too, Mrs. Banks. Thank you for having us over."

Charlotte nodded.

"Just wait right here, you two. I'll give you a little something for the road."

Larson bit on his lip, not wanting to earn the wrath of his father by showing up late; but before he could protest, Charlotte vanished into the kitchen. The defenseman began to sweat bullets as he stared at the ticking grandfather clock that stood by the library's entrance. The constant, _unavoidable_ swinging of the pendulum added to his discomfort, bringing back dreadful memories of his father's rage.

 _Whack-whack, whack-whack….tic-tock, tic-tock._

"I can't wait anymore," Larson declared after two excruciatingly long minutes. "I've got to go. Later, guys."

As he made for the library door, he nearly collided into Charlotte, who was carrying two white paper bags.

"One for you," she handed the bag in her left hand to Larson, "And one for you," she extended the bag in her right toward McGill. "Stay safe!"

"Later guys," Adam gave each of his friends a parting fist bump.

The pair of visiting Hawks made their way down the long marble-floored hallway, through the cherry-floored foyer and out to the front porch, where Larson took a seat on the steps and furiously began strapping on his rollerblades, desperate not to lose a second. McGill looked inside his white bag.

"Awesome! Mrs. Banks rocks!"

The bag contained several of Penny's famous biscuits along with a generous slice of shrink-wrapped pumpkin pie.

Larson nodded, not really paying attention. Securing his blades, he got up, then looked into his own bag, whose contents matched that of McGill's. He realized that he would never make it into his house carrying the bag, and his backpack was no hiding place. The Old Man would unzip and inspect it the second he walked through the front door, as always. But there was a chance that he could hide the biscuits in his jacket. The pie would probably get crushed and ruin the jacket though.

"Here," Larson extended his slice of pie toward McGill. "Take it – the Old Man won't let me have it."

"Heh, what about your biscuits?"

Larson glared at his opportunistic friend.

"I'll take that chance."

"Now there's the Iceman I know! Not afraid to try to get things by his Old Man," McGill gave Larson an affable clap on the back.

"Yeah, well, I need every minute I can get; so I can't see you home. Later, Jake."

"Later, Iceman."

Larson nodded and without wasting another second, took off down the walkway, then down the driveway and out to the street with his backpack strapped to his shoulders and his biscuit bag in hand. McGill did not match his friend's urgency in returning home, but his life was not on the line either. In addition to being much closer to Adam's house, the McGill household did not impose corporal punishment on their son – beating their son would have demanded that they pay attention to him in the first place.

Once he arrived at the sidewalk just in front of his house, McGill let out a sigh. He knew that his father was home, and his mother probably was as well. Unusually, his sister Melanie's car was in the driveway. Despite all of his family being home, McGill knew that the place would have an empty feel to it. With that thought in mind, he languidly shuffled home.

Larson barreled down the road like someone who was running from an ax murderer. As the houses got smaller and all the fancy Jaguar, Mercedes, and Lexus sedans gave way to Fords and Chevys, the defenseman knew that he was getting closer. Despite his curiosity, he did not dare lose precious seconds by checking his wristwatch at any point. But as he arrived at his street, he suddenly put on the brakes.

After stuffing the biscuits into his training jacket, he crumpled up the paper bag and tossed it onto the ground. Despite the anti-littering campaign at school, Larson could not care less. After all, his father got away with far worse, proof positive that "it's a rough world."

With the biscuits secured and hidden, Larson made one final, desperate dash to his house. He noticed that there were several cars parked in the street in front of his house, and quickly recognized them as cars belonging to his father's prison guard buddies. The boy let out a relieved sigh.

With Bill's buddies over for poker and beer, Paul knew that his Old Man would be far less violent. Realizing that he could have kept his pumpkin pie after all, Paul felt a brief flash of annoyance.

 _Oh well. But at least he won't hit me either way.  
_

Paul rolled up the short driveway and through the walkway before sitting down on the front step to take off his rollerblades. He made it back home with five minutes to spare, and sure enough, Bill was at the kitchen table with his buddies.

"Mom, Dad – I'm home!"

Bill looked at the kitchen clock, which confirmed that his son was punctual.

"Good. Now get upstairs!" He hollered back through a pungent cloud of cigarette smoke.

Paul permitted himself a slight grin, pleased that his biscuits would not be seized and that he would not go to bed sore. The boy was so happy that upon entering his bedroom, he did not even feel anger at the growing, but little chocolate Labrador named Shadow who was resting on his bed. Dog hair on the bed was another transgression for which Bill could conceivably punish his son. But the defenseman figured a quick run of the Dust-Buster would make things alright.

"Hey, boy," Larson called out to Shadow as he unzipped his jacket and carefully removed the biscuits. His mood improved further still by the fact that the biscuits had remained intact.

Taking a seat at his desk, the hungry defenseman ravenously devoured most of the buttery goodness, leaving just one. His hunger pangs were gone, but a Banks biscuit was not easy to come by, so he had every intention of eating it when he felt a soft, warm bundle of fur come to rest on his foot.

Shadow looked up at his young master with a look that mixed adoration with pleading.

"Here you go, boy," Larson set the last biscuit on the ground. "Help me destroy the evidence."

The dog did not need to be told twice.


	5. Learning From the Best

**Chapter Five: Learning From the Best**

District 5 gathered at their beloved frozen pond on a cold, but clear February weekend. Their season had ended winless, and the Pee Wee playoffs had come and gone, but the championship game between the Hawks and the Jets would be later that day. Although their season had ended several weeks ago, D5 still liked to meet up and practice in their own way: informally, without grumpy coaches, and with an emphasis on good old-fashioned fun.

Guy Germaine broke free from Charlie Conway's tight coverage and bore down one-on-one against Greg Goldberg. The blond forward in a long scarf and distinctive winter cap drew back and fired, prompting Goldberg to dive out of harm's way.

As the puck sailed through the net, Guy mimicked the sound of a goal horn as best as he could, raising his arms in triumph.

"Another one for Guy-Ger!"

Charlie, the unofficial captain nodded and gave his friend a congratulatory smile.

"Yep. Nice one, Guy."

He then looked over to his team's hapless goalie.

"Come on, Goldie! You could have had that one!"

But Goldberg threw his arms up in exasperation.

"Do I look like I'm in the Secret Service? Am I supposed to take a bullet for the President or somethin'?"

Before Charlie could respond, Les Averman interjected in his Rob Schneider voice.

"The Gold-ster, the dive-er, doesn't want to get hamm-ered."

Goldberg retaliated by slapping the puck at Averman, but the short goalie stick was no good for velocity, and the puck gently brushed against Averman's left shin. The short, bespectacled defenseman with freckles and reddish-brown hair was good-natured, but his shtick got old quickly.

"Come on, Goldie, it was just a joke," Charlie called out, trying to diffuse the situation.

The second line center was not quite as short as his linemate Peter Mark, but still of below average height for a boy his age. With his light brown hair, kindly green eyes, and gentle nature, Charlie Conway was hard not to like, and the instant rapport he could establish with his teammates made him the group's _de facto l_ eader.

"Whatever," Goldberg replied. " _You_ try standing in the path of a flying puck. Then you can talk smack, Averman."

The goalie had left his net and begun to clumsily skate toward Averman.

"Boys, boys," Connie Moreau began in her 'tsk-tsk' school mistress tone of voice. "You guys are teammates and friends, now kiss and make up."

" _Eeeeeeew!"_

Connie giggled at the D5 responsorial chorus.

"Alright, well at least shake hands," the pretty brunette with porcelain skin and honey brown eyes suggested. Being the only girl among her nine and ten-year old teammates, she was the tallest in the group; but once the boys entered puberty, that would change.

Averman nodded in agreement then extended his hand toward Goldberg.

"Sorry, Greg."

Goldberg nodded back and shook defenseman's outstretched hand.

"No hard feelings."

Feeling a pang of hunger, the goalie rolled-up the sleeves of his winter jacket and Philadelphia Flyers hoodie and checked his watch.

"Well, well, well. Look at the time!"

"Feedin' time, Hoss?" Tiny, wise-cracking Peter Mark asked.

"Yep. C'mon, let's take this show to Mickey's!"

The dark-haired goalie was referring to D5's favorite hangout spot after their pond: Mickey's Diner. The old train-car style diner was a local institution and it was where Casey Conway – Charlie's mother and the team's unofficial stepmom – worked.

Normally, Charlie would be the first to suggest a trip to the diner. But the Pee Wee Championship was scheduled for that afternoon, and he did not want to miss it

"Aw, come on, Goldie!" Charlie protested. "There's food at the arena! Don't you want to catch the game?"

The goalie stroked his chin, giving the appearance of being in deep thought.

"Hmmm," he pondered. "Nope!"

"Yeah, seriously Charlie, why do you want to watch those jerks?" Dave Karp, the mischievous, ushanka-wearing defenseman asked.

"You gotta learn from the best, Karp! Come on, drop off your stuff back at your house, then let's meet up at the arena," Charlie looked beyond the fire hydrant-shaped defenseman to the rest of his team before continuing. "Who's with me?"

"I'll go with you," Guy volunteered, skating over to Charlie's side.

The pair was immediately joined by Guy's linemates Jesse and Terry Hall. Guy, Jesse and Terry were inseparable, and Jesse often referred to the blond forward as his 'brother from another mother.'

Charlie looked back to his remaining teammates: Connie, Goldberg, Peter, Averman, and Karp.

"Anyone else? Going once….going twice….."

The remaining teammates stood perfectly still.

"Uh….still going twice….."

Jesse chuckled and put a hand on Charlie's shoulder, telling him to give it a rest.

"Right, see you guys around, then!"

"Right back at ya, Spazway!" Peter called out in reply as the two groups began taking off their skates before going their separate ways.

Charlie could not help but wince at the sound of his unflattering nickname. To be sure, ribbing was all part of the team dynamic; but the earnest, brown-haired boy hated the tag. As dreadful as his team was, Charlie always tried his best to put them in a position to win, and it killed him whenever he found himself in a position to make something happen for his teammates and friends, only to _spaz out_ and choke. Hence, _Spazway._

Guy observed his friend's discomfort and gave him a reassuring smile.

"It's alright, _Conway,"_ he pointedly said his friend's real name. "You'll learn some new moves today, then blow everyone away next season!"

Charlie smiled back.

"That's the plan! Meet you outside the arena at one?"

Guy and the Hall brothers nodded.

"Great, see you then!"

* * *

Adam's heart raced as he finished putting on the last of his gear in the Hawk locker room ahead of the championship game. He had already been in this situation twice before, but it had not gotten any less thrilling for the earnest center. Although the Hawks were not a particularly rowdy bunch, they were quieter than usual as they dressed and mentally braced for the big game. The atmosphere created a nervous energy – not a panicky one, but an excited one. The gritty boys in black were about to prove to the Pee Wee world that they were still the best.

Now fully dressed, Adam turned and noticed the large bruises all over Paul Larson's bare torso. The center's eyes widened at the sight of the banged-up defenseman.

"Geez Paul, what the heck happened?!"

As Larson's blank face met Adam's curious gaze, the latter regretted his curiosity.

"Sorry, Paul. It's none of my business…I shouldn't stare."

But Larson shrugged, maintaining his blank face in an act of calculated stoicism.

"It's nothing. Those pesky Hornets hit hard, that's all."

Adam nodded.

"No matter," Larson continued. "I hit harder," he added with a paper-thin smile.

"I'll say!" A fully-dressed McGill agreed. "I think you put all those twerps on their back at some point. You even made one of 'em leave the game!"

"All in a day's work," Larson deadpanned.

In truth, the boy had taken a ferocious beating from his father. When a male high school friend of Maria Larson's made the mistake of calling their house to catch up, Bill flew into a jealous rage. Paul tried to get between his parents and calm his father, only to end up absorbing several vicious blows that left dark purple marks all over his upper body.

The beating had acted as a stimulant for the brooding defenseman, and any opponent who dared to cross the Hawk blue line during their playoff run ended up regretting it. No one could understand why Larson had suddenly become so chippy, but the results were so good that there were no questions or complaints from coaches or teammates. And in any event, Larson would never dream of exposing his father's abuse. Not only was the boy convinced that his father would get away with it, but he hated the idea of appearing weak and helpless before the world. Such an appearance only invited abuse from others, so he carefully constructed an invisible, but impenetrable barrier between himself and the rest of the world – a barrier that excluded even his best friends.

Just as Larson finished getting dressed, he heard the sound of the heavy locker room door open. The room became deadly silent as the few, soft conversations ceased and Coach Reilly entered.

* * *

Charlie's mouth dropped as he took in the sight of the Hawks going about the pre-game routine with military precision. _This_ was how a real hockey team went about their business. As much as he loved his friends, Charlie was frustrated by their inability to take the game seriously enough to win, or at least improve. But the Hawks were a well-trained, and well-disciplined squad of warriors who were all huge for their age. And in spite of all their advantages in size and talent, the Hawks never cut any corners in their warm-ups. And Charlie knew from experience that once the puck dropped, they would become _even more_ intense.

Jesse made a loud, exaggerated yawn.

"What?" Charlie asked.

"Heh, nothing. I think I'll hit up the concessions before I die of excitement."

"But you gotta stay," Charlie protested. "You gotta learn how the best teams warm-up!"

"Do you want me to make my snack run during the game, then?"

Charlie sighed, knowing he had lost.

"Just don't be too long."

Jesse chuckled as he got up from his seat in the stands.

"Anybody wanna join me?"

Guy got to his feet while Terry remained seated, absorbed by the drills.

"Don't worry, we'll bring you back some stuff," Jesse promised as he began shuffling toward the aisle.

He looked back at Charlie and Terry, neither of whom seemed to have heard him. They continued to gaze at the players on the ice as if they were in some hypnotic trance.

Charlie found the activities of the Hawks' Number 9 particularly absorbing. He had heard the kid's name before – Adam Banks – but had never properly met the supremely-talented Hawk center. Being on the second line of D5, Charlie's only interaction with Adam had been the brief post-game handshake after his team's drubbing against the Hawks.

He had heard some disturbing rumors about Adam from his wealthier cousin, Erin, who attended St. Alban's Elementary School. Apparently Adam was quite the bully, along with his friends Jake McGill and Paul Larson.

 _Whatever_ , Charlie thought. _It's not like he's gonna join our team or anything like that._

* * *

As Jesse and Guy approached the concession stands, a random thought occurred to the former.

"So Guy, what's with you and Connie?"

The blond forward's porcelain-colored skin turned beet red.

"Nothing."

Jesse flashed a grin that was as wide as the Mississippi was long.

"Sure thing," he replied. "But I say go for it."

Somehow, Guy's face managed to become even redder.

"Girls have cooties. You know that."

Jesse laughed out loud as he observed his linemate. Deciding that his good friend was literally the worst liar in the world, Jesse took it upon himself to play matchmaker.

"True – except for Connie," he replied. "I mean, she wouldn't play hockey if she had cooties. I think that's in the rule book, actually."

"If I tell her that I like her, will you stop talking?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm afraid you're gonna have to keep talking, cos it ain't happening."

"Okay, have it your way," Jesse raised his hands in surrender. "I still think you should tell her, but whatever."

Before Guy could respond, the pair of D5 forwards found themselves at the front of the concession line, and Jesse placed the order for his friends.

* * *

The first line Hawks met at center ice in their all-black uniforms to confront their blue-and-gray opponents, the Jets. The puck dropped and Adam immediately won possession. After achieving separation from his Jet opposite, he burst into the Jet zone and bore down on the goalie. The Hawk center deked twice then faked a shot, setting up a pass to McGill who drew back and fired.

The goal siren went off and McGill's linemates gave him a congratulatory embrace as they seized the early lead.

Adam won possession at the next faceoff, then sailed the puck ahead to his favorite wingman, Jake McGill. The strongly-built forward passed ahead to his opposite wing, Scott Stevens, but the puck flew just past the platinum-haired wing and was recovered by a Jet defenseman. The defenseman took off on a fast break and motored into the Hawk zone with Larson in hot pursuit. As the Jet drew back for a slap-shot he got leveled by a surprise hip-check, courtesy of Paul Larson.

Number 33 did an about face and advanced toward the Jet zone, passing ahead to Adam. Number 9's opposite could not hope to keep up with Adam's speed and shiftiness. Adam bore down on the Jet goalie, skated around the back of the net, then flicked a back-handed shot into the corner of the goal. 2-0, Hawks.

"He's really awesome," a wide-eyed Charlie declared, observing Adam in the middle of a celebratory sandwich with his teammates.

Jesse scoffed. "Crazy cake-eater moves."

"But you've gotta admit, he's got a pretty sweet backhand."

Jesse gave his awestruck friend a confused look.

"So that's the answer? Tennis moves will help us win hockey games?"

Charlie shrugged.

"It wouldn't kill us to think outside the box."

Their attention returned to the ice as the lines changed. Charlie could not help but wonder what it would be like to have Adam on his team, but tried not to dwell too much on it. As much as he liked to daydream and hope for the best, even Charlie knew that Adam and the rest of the Hawks belonged not only to a different team, but to a different world. Seeing Adam in a D5 uniform – if one could call their shabby gameday attire a 'uniform' – was about as probable as a giraffe doing long division.

The Jet second line proved to be more evenly match against their Hawk counterparts than their first line had been. Having watched the Jet second line score two goals in quick succession, Jack Reilly ordered his first line back out early. In doing so, the old Hawk coach risked maxing out the allowed ice minutes for his best players, but he was determined not to see his team play from behind. A tie was bad enough.

Reilly's eyes wandered up to the row of championship pennants that surrounded the arena. Among the 25 black championship pennants, the yellow runner-up pennant stuck out like a sore thumb. Twenty years after the event, the memory of Gordon Bombay's choke job when Reilly and the team needed him most still irked the old coach.

 _Never. Again._

The grimly-determined scowl on Reilly's face was replaced by a broad grin as Adam scored again, retaking the lead for the Hawks. Reilly popped his collar and shot a mocking smirk at his Jet counterpart on the other side of the glass.

The Golden Trio played an inspired shift. Adam ended up with two goals, bringing his game total up to a hat trick, and had both of the assists for Larson and McGill's goals. 5-2 Hawks.

The second line returned to the ice and, the 3-goal lead built by the first line appeared to have calmed the second line's nerves, as they played with much greater efficiency, managing two more goals. 7-2 Hawks.

The Hawks dominated the second period, and goals from Adam and Stevens brought the Hawk total to 9 goals.

As the third period began, the Jets played with a fierce sense of urgency and aggression, desperate to get back into the game. But in their haste, the Jets proved sloppy with the puck and turned it over several times. Adam seized the puck on one of the turnovers, and took off on a fast break. The game had been going so well for Adam that he had never felt more alive, even during his earlier championship experiences. He confidently bore down on the Jet goalie, deked twice and fired directly at the goalie's stick. So confident was Adam that he assumed that the beleagured Jet goalie would shrink away from the puck and give up yet another goal. But the goalie smothered the puck and forced a faceoff, preventing what should have been an easy 10th goal for the Hawks.

"BAAAANKS," Reilly growled from the bench, causing Adam to look down in embarrassment.

But he looked back up when he felt a comforting hand on his right shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, Mo," McGill began. "You'll get the next one."

Larson, who had skated up alongside his best friends, nodded.

"He's right, Adam. Time to break out the Triangle Offense."

Adam flashed an excited grin. The so-called 'Triangle Offense' featured each of the Golden Trio, and involved a dazzling series of moves that would make the scouts' heads spin.

"Let's do it," he agreed. "Us against the world?"

"US AGAINST THE WORLD!" Larson and McGill roared back.

The Jets won the face off in the Hawk zone, only to lose the puck to Larson who had forced it loose with a ferocious check along the boards. He sailed the puck ahead to McGill who took off in the direction of the Jet zone with Adam skating parallel to his best friend. McGill made a lateral pass to Adam, who advanced on the net, drawing coverage from the Jet defenseman. Once double-teamed, Adam passed backward to Larson who waited just inside the Jet blue line.

Larson drew back, causing the Jet defenders to pursue him. He made a parallel pass to McGill, who had shifted to form the base of the triangle along with Larson, with Adam all by himself on the point.

 _Like taking candy from a baby_ , McGill thought, sailing the puck ahead to Adam.

The Hawk center drew back and fired. 10-2, Hawks.

Stevens and McGill scored the final two goals to give Reilly a 10-goal margin of victory for his championship.

Adam felt pure ecstasy as he was mobbed by his friends and teammates in their on-ice celebration once the final horn had sounded. Moments like this were what it was all about. Leading his friends to a commanding victory with an inspired personal performance. This was a kind of euphoria that even a thousand submissive little twerps could not give Adam. He was almost delerious with happiness when his eyes wandered to the stands, and he observed his brother Michael manning the family camcorder from the highest row of bleachers. That little video recorder, resting on a tripod with its evil little red eye seemed to stare directly at him.

Inside that camcorder was a VHS tape that would point out in excruciating detail all of Adam's blown opportunities and mistakes. It would provide irrefutible proof that Adam's efforts were a long way from perfect...or even adequate. As quickly as it rose, his heart sank as he began to contemplate just how badly his efforts had fallen short.

* * *

After the brief locker room celebration and speech from Coach Reilly, the Hawks gradually trickled out into the hallway to be taken home by their waiting parents. Some parents took longer than others, but eventually, only one Hawk remained in the locker room. McGill had spent most of his time after the celebration hiding in the showers; he was desperate to avoid being humiliated in front of his teammates, so he avoided being observed waiting for parents who would never show up.

He continued to absent-mindedly fiddle with his gear to give the appearance of being occupied when he heard footsteps.

"Jake!"

McGill looked up with a start. He had never heard Coach Reilly refer to any of the Hawks by their first name.

"Yes, Coach?"

"It's been over an hour, son. Where are your parents?"

McGill tried to put on a brave face, but could not hide the pain in his voice as he replied.

"They weren't at the game, Coach. I don't know where they are, to be honest. But I'm sure they're not home."

Reilly gave a short nod in reply.

"Well if you're done zipping up your hockey bag," he began with a slight smile, "Follow me. We're going home."

McGill's eyes widened, but he immediately did as he was told, grabbing all of his gear and joining his coach at the doorway to the locker room. The Hawk triumph had been a bitter sweet experience for the boy. He was thrilled for his friends and teammates, and pleased with his solid performance, but saddened by the fact that his family did not bother to show up for his big game. But as he followed Coach Reilly to his black Chevy Tahoe, McGill began to feel that as long as he had his team, his coach, and the Golden Trio, life had enough to offer.


	6. Birds of Prey

**A/N:** thank you for reading this far, that's it for the pre-canon stuff. I'll be quoting from the movie trilogy for (almost all) the rest of this story. All **bold text** are lines from the films and belong to Disney, not me. Thank you, _reallyneedahobby_ and _texaskid_ for reviewing!

* * *

 **Chapter Six:** **Birds of Prey**

Gordon Bombay, the latest court-appointed head coach of District Five, cursed his misfortune as he observed his former Pee Wee team, the Hawks, go about their pre-game routine. The dreaded boys in black loudly chanted 'HAWKS, HAWKS HAWKS,' as they did their laps. From there, the elite squad performed their warm-ups with precision and discipline. The routine resembled scenes out of boot camp, only on ice.

Karp had been waiting on the bench when Larson and McGill skated over.

" **Hi, girls,"** Larson taunted his opponents.

" **Karp, no!"** Peter and Averman restrained the stocky defenseman, who was eager to prove to the Hawks just how un-girly he was.

" **Goodbye!"**

Larson and McGill quickly returned to their team before Reilly could holler at them. The pair got in position on either side of Adam, who had been stretching. The star center gave the new arrivals a slightly confused look.

"Why do you guys do that?" He indicated the D5 bench with his head.

"Hockey's only half the game," Larson answered. "The rest…you gotta get inside their heads."

McGill nodded with a smirk.

"Yep. The little fat one got rattled. That's a good start – should make him nice and sloppy."

Adam shrugged. He knew that psychological warfare was part of any competition, but at times he suspected that his friends engaged in it just for its own sake – not to give them an actual competitive advantage.

"Yeah, well you guys are behind on your stretches," he countered. "Don't skip any steps."

McGill smiled at his best friend before getting into the stretching routine.

"You got it, Mo."

Back at the D5 bench, Bombay shook his head as he contemplated his rough welcome back into the world of Pee Wee hockey.

" **The Hawks. My first game, and it had to be the Hawks."**

He had only just taken over D5, and his lone practice with the team had been cut short when an indignant Casey Conway snatched her son, Charlie, away from Bombay's limousine that had been riding on the team's frozen pond.

Not that a longer practice would have made any difference. This roudy bunch was more interested in riding around in a limo than in practicing. Even if Bombay had wanted to impart some of his long-buried – psychologists might say 'repressed' _–_ hockey knowledge, the kids just were not up for it.

The competitive Hawk-turned-young-lawyer continued to stare at his opponents for several minutes. He found the group absolutely memorizing, but he was snapped out of his stupor by a low, familiar voice that rang with authority.

" **Gordon? Gordon Bombay?"**

Bombay looked over to see Jack Reilly. The long-time Hawk coach looked like he had not aged a day since Bombay's playing days twenty years earlier. Dressed in his black team jacket, complete with popped collar, Reilly was tall and fit with a neatly-combed salt-and-pepper mane and an imposing baritone that commanded respect and obedience. Bombay turned and extended his hand to greet his coaching opposite.

" **Coach Reilly."**

The older man grinned as he shook Bombay's outstretched hand.

" **We're both adults now. Why don't you just call me 'Jack'?"**

Bombay nodded, but his mind rejected the familiarity.

" **Hey, come back to see your old coach, huh?"**

" **Well, actually, I'm, uh, coaching…Pee Wee. District 5 team."**

" **No kiddin'!"** Reilly offered his former star a broad smile. **"You got a kid on the team or somethin'?"**

" **No, I'm here because I need to be of service to the community."**

Reilly laughed slightly as he took in the sight of his infamous 'Runner-up' now doing community service by coaching hapless D5. Were it any of Reilly's other former players in that situation, the old Hawk coach might have felt ashamed that one of his boys could sink to such depths. But as the corner of his eye caught that hated yellow banner, Reilly felt guilty pleasure over Gordon's predicament.

" **How about this, huh? Who'd ever thought we'd be coachin' against each other?"**

" **Yeah, who'd have thought?"**

Bombay was unable to hide his embarrassment, and spent most of the conversation looking at the floor, rather than up at Reilly. Eager to talk about something other than his humiliating personal situation, Bombay decided to talk shop as his gaze turned to the ice.

" **So who's your hotshot player this year? Anyone good?"**

" **I got a kid named Banks,"** Reilly indicated Number 9 with his index finger.

Gordon took in the sight of the boy who shared his old number running scoring drills.

 _A tall one – but a quick one. I can't knock his stickhandling, either._

" **Might go all the way,"** Reilly continued. **"Not quite as good as you were. But he wants it more. Kid won't give up."**

" **Oh boy,"** Bombay replied with zero enthusiasm, his eyes wandering up to the black championship banners. The yellow runner-up banner stuck out like a sore thumb.

Reilly finally wiped the grin off his face as he followed Bombay's gaze to that hateful symbol of mediocrity.

" **I wish they would take that one down,"** Reilly declared with a shaking index finger. **"Don't you?"**

Bombay did not respond, but Reilly allowed his question to hang in the air for a few beats. After all, Gordon was the opposing coach, and Reilly knew how to needle him. After several long seconds, Reilly finally spoke up.

" **Well, good luck – you're gonna need it."**

* * *

The Hawk and D5 first line forwards met at center ice for the opening faceoff. Adam was a bit too jumpy, however, and he had to trade places with McGill once the ref blew his whistle. McGill lined-up against Guy Germaine, and took in the sight of the pasty white center flanked by two black wings, causing Number 7 to chuckle.

" **What's this, the Oreo Line?"**

Jesse and Terry Hall moved to confront the bully, but a ref got in between them.

 _Got another two rattled,_ McGill thought, observing the indignant looks on his opponents. _This is just too easy._

" **Hey, come on. Let's play hockey."**

The puck dropped, and McGill won possession, knocking Guy flat on his rear before tearing into the D5 zone with Adam and Stevens following close behind.

Goldberg winced as the fearsome Hawks bore down on his net. McGill passed back to Adam who teed-up and fired, causing the poorly-equipped goalie to dive out of harm's way.

As the Hawks gathered for a celebratory group hug by the D5 net, Bombay looked over to Reilly across the glass, and immediately regretted it.

" **Good show, sloppy pass,"** Reilly muttered. **"Way to stuff it, Banks!"** He called out louder as his first line approached the bench for the switch.

Sensing that he was being watched, Reilly turned to the glass partition that divided the Hawk and D5 benches, and caught his old protégé's eye.

Not missing an opportunity to needle his opponent, Reilly smirked and popped his collar.

 _Prick,_ Bombay thought.

Reilly turned back to his players, urging them to run up the score while Bombay's first line approached the D5 bench.

" **Oh man! How could you let him get by you?"** Goldberg demanded of his non-existent defenders.

" **Alright, line change!"** Bombay called out without any enthusiasm. **"Come on! Go, go go!"**

Once the Hawk first line returned to the ice, the Golden Trio continued to pummel D5. As Adam and McGill piled up the goals, Larson pounded would-be scorers into the ice, Bombay knew that the game had irreversibly gotten away from his team. Now it was just a matter of seeing how much the Hawks would inflate their margin of victory. Bombay knew that his old coach wanted to make a statement, doubly so given his status as an ex-Hawk.

He vented his frustration on his banged-up players.

" **How lazy can you be?! They're killin' us out there!"** He began, snatching a bottle of water out of Goldberg's mouth. **"How many times do I have to tell you?! Get those rebounds, get your heads up, get those loose pucks. Get...just...get the hell outta here."**

Play resumed and for a brief second, Bombay lightened up as Charlie Conway charged into the Hawk zone.

" **Alright!"** Bombay enthused.

" **It's Spazway,"** Karp chimed-in. **"He'll screw up."**

The D5 center teed-up, took a swing, and whiffed. The momentum of the swing sent Charlie crashing head-first into the boards. As he staggered back to his feet, Adam killed the last bit of the D5er's pride with a devastating hip-check from behind.

" **Way to play it Banks!"** Reilly called out.

" **That's okay, Charlie! Nice try!"** Casey called to her son as he gingerly got back up.

" **Nice fan, Charlie,"** Bombay muttered to himself. **"Keep swingin', maybe you'll give 'em a cold."**

Over on the Hawk bench, Reilly urged his players to keep up the intensity.

" **Remember – it's not worth winning…"**

"... **IF YOU CAN'T WIN BIG!"** The Hawks chorused back as Bombay lip-synched the familiar refrain from his childhood.

The Hawks went ahead and did as their coach demanded, running up the score to 17, sending the battered and exhausted D5ers into the boards while shutting them out. But even that was not enough to satisfy Jack Reilly, and he made it clear to his players that he was unimpressed with their effort at the end of the game.

" **That was a lousy third period, anybody can beat these pansies! I want you guys to _stay hungry_ out there."**

The players, who had been celebrating their triumph immediately piped down and gave their coach embarrassed looks. As much as Reilly taught his boys about the game, nothing was ever good enough for him, and the team celebrations were always cut short by his hectoring. Reilly continued.

" **Alright, nice goin,' Banks,"** he grudgingly conceded to his star player. **"New Hawk record."**

Adam fought back the urge to smile broadly. Not only had he earned a rare compliment from his demanding coach, but he even managed to outdo his older brother, Michael, _for once._ And with Larson and McGill loyally at his side, things only seemed to be looking up for the Hawk center.

" **Okay, boys. Let's go,"** Reilly dismissed his players before looking over at a morose Bombay. **"Hey Gordon, nice game! I enjoyed it thoroughly!"**

Bombay met his former coach's gaze. He did not reply, but thought about how wonderful it would be to replace Reilly's smirk with a permanent grin. Turning to face his players, who had been arguing amonst themselves over who was at fault for their latest drubbing, Gordon vented his rage.

" **Hey, shut up!"** He called out. **"You guys _stink!"_**

D5 piped down at once.

" **I thought we came here to play hockey!"**

" **You know, I knew we forgot something,"** Peter joked.

" **Oh, you think it's funny? You think losing is funny?"**

" **Well not at first, but once you get the hang of it,"** Averman offered.

Bombay's torrent of abuse continued, with the Hall Brothers offering an occasional interjection on behalf of their beleaguered teammates. Jesse eventually had enough of Bombay's shtick and got up to leave, breaking traditional hockey etiquette where players do not return to their locker room until dismissed by their coach.

Now completely spent, Bombay closed by declaring that he did not care before he wandered off the bench. Out of the corner of his eye, Bombay's old friend, Hans the skate sharpener, appeared like an apparition. The elderly Scandinavian looked disappointed by his old pupil's meltdown.

But as quickly as the heavyset skate merchant appeared, he vanished. Bombay ran out into the parking lot in the hopes of catching up, but these hopes proved to be in vain.

* * *

After a thumping from the Hawks and a dressing-down from yet another angry coach, Charlie decided that his teammates needed a little pick-me-up. And rumor had it that Peter and Karp had scored a boxfull of the annual Swimsuit Edition from _Sports Illustrated._ Connie turned down Charlie's invitation to ogle a bunch of girls in bikinis, but the rest of the D5 squad eagerly met up in an alley not far from their frozen pond.

Just slightly off the beaten path, this little alley served as a more private hangout for D5 than their pond or the diner. It was the origin of most of the mischievous group's pranks, including their recent poopy purse prank. Charlie was good-natured and had a sense of humor, but he lacked the creativity to come up with pranks, and typically ceded his authority to Peter and Karp on these occasions.

Alone in their alley hideout, the boys eagerly tore into the box containing the forbidden cargo.

As the boys enthusiastically grabbed the material, Karp spoke up.

" **First look's free, next five minutes cost a buck each."**

" **Yeah guys, fork it over,"** Peter agreed with his husky sidekick.

" **Forget it, Karp,"** Averman protested, returning the magazine. **"I can see this every day on MTV."**

Peter's eyes widened as he examined a pleasantly curvy, and sun-kissed blonde in a white bikini.

" **Hey look, this one's from Minneapolis! Look, Guy! I think it's your mom!"**

The rest of the group broke into laughter as Guy chased Peter into a wall, ready to defend his mother's honor.

" **Let's give him a wedgie!"** Jesse suggested, joining his blond friend in pursuit.

" **That's a good idea, Jesse!"** Guy agreed.

" **C'mon, I was just kidding!"** Peter pleaded, his teammates closing-in on him.

As Karp, the slowest of the group, moved to catch up with his friends, the Golden Trio swooped in on rollerblades and snatched his magazine.

" **Hey – give that back!"** Karp demanded.

The Golden Trio lined up with McGill at the center, flanked by Larson and Adam. All three boys were wearing their black Hawk training jackets.

" **Hi, girls,"** Larson sneered, as the Golden Trio began to skate menacingly around their prey.

" **Does your mommy know you have that?** " McGill asked in a baby voice.

" **Nah, she's busy with the mailman,"** Larson replied.

" **That'll make great bathroom reading!"** Adam offered.

" **That's mine, you jerk! I found it!"** Karp snapped.

McGill glared at the stocky defenseman.

" **You don't even know what to do with it, wuss-breath!"**

Mischievous Peter Mark could sense a confrontation brewing, and egged-on his short-tempered friend.

" **You gonna let him call ya 'wuss-breath'?"**

" **Noooo!"** Karp growled as he moved in on the Golden Trio.

The three Hawks immediately put on the brakes, closed-in, and threw their victim into the trash bags that lined the brick wall of the alley.

The rest of D5 looked on helplessly as Karp struggled to get back to his feet. The Golden Trio regrouped, this time with Larson at the center.

" **C'mon, you want some more?"** Larson taunted the group, waving them on with his hand. Adam and McGill copied the gesture.

D5 squared up against the Golden Trio, but did not appear ready to make a move. They simply exchanged taunts with their tormentors as the heavy footsteps Fulton Reed came up behind the Hawks.

Horrified looks washed across Larson and McGill's faces as the tall, quiet boy with jet-black hair lifted them off their feet.

It only took Fulton one hand to lift each of them up, and he threw the pair off to the side, causing them to crash into Adam. The Golden Trio landed with a thud on some trash bags.

As the Hawks took in the sight of D5's massive savior, McGill knew that the three of them had better bounce.

" **Come on, guys. Let's go."**

Adam and Larson did not need to be told twice, and joined McGill in skating back out into the street under Fulton's steely gaze.

Once they were a few blocks away, McGill recovered his composure as he skated ahead with Larson and Adam flanking him.

"Who the hell was that?"

"Fulton Reed," Larson answered. "Some big, dumb retard who got held back a couple of times. I know him from my bus stop."

"Oh yeah?" Adam asked.

"Yeah," Larson continued. "He's dumber than a pile of rocks, but he can fight."

"Is that why you're not at the front of the line at your stop anymore?" McGill teased, drawing a deadly glare from the defenseman.

"Sorry, Paul," McGill offered.

"Don't worry about it," Larson replied. "But it's best to stay away from that guy, if we can."

Adam shook his head, still feeling cocky after his performance against D5.

"That retard beat us cos we weren't ready for him. We will be next time," the center flashed a wicked grin as he contemplated beating the tar out of Fulton.

"Yeah," McGill chimed in. "That moron's nobody to be scared of. We can take him!"

But Larson – always the cautious one in the Trio – remained unconvinced.

"Reed's tough," he declared. "We're lucky that he hasn't joined a hockey team."

McGill dismissed his friend's concerns with a mirthless laugh.

"What, like District 5? Maybe they'll manage to actually score a goal next time if that happens."

Adam nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, he can't help them. Besides, he's gotta be like 16 or something. He's too old for our league – and I'm pretty sure that they don't let retards play anyway," the center added with a malicious grin.

"Mo's right, Paul," McGill declared. "If that monkey is allowed to play, we'll still crush him."

He then put on the brakes, prompting his friends to stop as he extended a fist.

"Us against the world?"

"US AGAINST THE WORLD!" Adam and Larson roared back.

Adam could not wipe the massive grin off his face as the Golden Trio resumed their skating. Even a kid as big and as tough as Fulton Reed seemed vulnerable as long as the Golden Trio remained together. He looked forward to his next encounter with the powerfully-built boy who was rumored to be much older than his actual age. Adam was convinced that he could, and would beat Fulton Reed to a bloody pulp; and the thought of doing so made him giddy with excitement.


	7. A Permanent Reminder

**Chapter Seven: A Permanent Reminder**

The unseasonably mild weather that had allowed the Golden Trio to torment D5 on their rollerblades gave way to bitter January snow and cold. As Paul Larson looked out his bedroom window on the morning of the 9th – his 11th birthday – he hoped that the weather would clear-up in time to give the snowplows a chance to clear the roads to the arena. But the saturated clouds that dominated the gray sky had other ideas, and they continued their snowy assault on the Twin Cities.

Letting out a sigh, Larson turned away from the forbidding weather outside and looked around his sparsely-furnished bedroom. Apart from a neatly-made twin bed, a cherry desk with a matching two-drawer filing cabinet, a black swivel desk chair, a wooden dresser, and a creaky old bookcase weighed down by musty nature volumes, there was not much to see. A tiny closet concealed by a vinyl bi-fold door housed the boy's modest wardrobe.

The ancient books aside, there was nothing in the room to provide the Hawk defenseman with any kind of entertainment, and having read those books so thoroughly and frequently, he had long passages committed to memory. His father barred him from having any posters of musicians or sports stars, so the room's only decor consisted of a collection of hockey trophies on the dresser, and an imposing 40-inch lake trout mounted to the wall above the desk.

Larson had reeled-in that feisty monster during a fishing trip with his Old Man, and in doing so, earned a rare congratulatory pat on the back. He could still remember the long, terrific fight that the fish put up in the frigid waters of Lake Superior nearly three springs earlier. Bill had offered to take the sharply-bent rod and fight the 28-pounder himself, but Paul would have none of it.

Even as the great fish nearly pulled the 8-year old into the treacherous waters, Paul resolved with grim determination to win the battle. And he succeeded.

The trout, once a fierce lake monster who bravely fought off countless fishers before Paul, now clung pathetically to the boy's bedroom wall. It served as a reminder to Paul that all of life was a competition. No quarter was ever to be expected or given. Pleasure is no substitute for noble struggle. And above all, might makes right. The trout was tough, but Paul Larson was tougher. That was why the fish ended up on a wall, and the boy had not ended up in a lake. For all of those reasons, Bill Larson was quite happy to let his son keep the fish as a trophy.

As Paul made the short walk from his window to his desk to look over his game notes, he heard a gentle knock at the door, followed by his mother's equally gentle voice.

 _"Paul?"_

"Come in, Ma'am!"

Maria Larson opened the door as her son took his seat at the desk. The soft-spoken brunette offered her only child a warm smile.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm Mom, not Ma'am."

Paul gave his mother a paper-thin smile as he shrugged in response.

"And last I checked, you're not British ," Maria continued. "So the pronunciation of the two is not the same."

"Sure thing, _Mom."_

The boy's father demanded that his son address all adults as "sir," or "ma'am"; and Paul found it difficult to discard his father's rules even around his much-gentler mother.

"That's better," Maria nodded. "Anyway, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I just got off the phone with Coach Reilly. Your game's been postponed."

Paul's eyes widened.

"For later today, right?"

Maria shook her head as her gentle brown eyes met her son's.

"For later in the month, I'm afraid."

The boy's shoulders sunk as he absorbed the news that there was to be no hockey that weekend. Playing with his Hawks in general and his Golden Trio in particular was the highlight of the now-11-year old's life. It was hard not to let his disappointment show, but the boy quickly remembered where he was: Bill Larson's house.

There was always the chance that the tough, hot-tempered prison guard would catch his son acting unmanly, and the consequences would be severe. Paul quickly put on his familiar blank face.

"That's too bad," he deadpanned.

But Maria could see through her son's stoicism. Moreover, she knew exactly why the boy felt the need to put on this act; and she hated herself for that. Over the years, she had dreamed of leaving Bill and taking Paul with her. But the sinister corrections officer exercised a powerful hold over her, and she had always been too scared to make her move. The worst of all possibilities, that she would leave and Paul would stay behind with his father, seemed like an appallingly likely outcome, and that made her stay even when the temptation to leave was overwhelming.

Not only could she – to a limited extent – calm her husband, but Maria was painfully aware of the fact that she was a rare source of love, comfort, and warmth in Paul's life. She always did what she could most days, but with Paul's birthday upon them, she was more determined than usual to pull out all the stops for her precious little boy.

"You know," she began, "I bet it'll clear up some time today. And when it does, guess who's getting a basket full of Altieri's cookies?"

Paul's eyes widened again, this time in pleasant surprise. Altieri's Bakery made the tastiest Italian cookies in the Midwest. Always sweet, always chewy, and always fresh, the Altieri's cookies were a rare weakness for the tough, disciplined boy. And the baskets were _huge_. Just thinking about all of that rich, baked goodness caused the corners of Paul's mouth to unexpectedly pull-up in a broad smile.

The boy's large, jagged teeth were off-putting to most people, but Maria thought they were adorable. She loved making him smile, and was the only person who could do so on a regular basis.

Suddenly aware of the fact that he was grinning, Paul immediately slapped his blank mask back on.

"You _really_ don't have to."

Paul did not even want to think about what Bill would do if his mother went ahead and got the treats.

But Maria gently shook her head, smiling warmly.

"No, but I _really_ want to. And I'm the grown-up, so I win," she stuck a playful tongue out at her son, drawing another rare Paul Larson grin in spite of his worries.

Before he could respond, the doorbell rang.

"I'll just go and get that," she offered.

As his mother turned and left, Paul reached for his game notes. He figured that he would have to face the Huskies some day, even if that day was to come later than scheduled. So he got to work on the notes compiled by Coach Reilly that detailed all of the team's strengths, weaknesses, tendencies, and go-to plays.

Given what little entertainment the boy had that could distract him, his powers of concentration were exceptionally strong. He was so absorbed in his studies that he did not hear two pairs of excited footsteps run up the stairs, down the hallway, and into his room.

"Happy birthday, Iceman!" McGill called out.

"Yeah, happy birthday, Paul!" Adam chimed in.

As his concentration snapped, Larson turned to discover the source of the interruption. His slightly annoyed expression was instantly replaced with a big, toothy grin as he observed his two best friends carrying wrapped gifts. Adam had been carrying one large box in blue wrapping paper, while McGill carried five much smaller boxes wrapped in different colors.

"Thanks, guys," Larson beamed. "Go ahead, set those things down. No need to keep carrying them."

"Aren't you gonna open them?" McGill asked.

"Yeah, really," Adam agreed. "Presents aren't meant to be stored."

"Uh, no..." Larson agreed uncomfortably, "Of course they're not."

Most of the presents he had ever gotten were clothes, and were definitely made for storing whenever they were not in use. Adam and McGill _had_ gotten him some nice toys over the years, only to have them destroyed by his father who disapproved of distractions. As Paul remembered the toys he lost over the years, his heart began to sink. He did not want to unwrap his presents only to see what splendid goodies he was about to miss out on.

"Well?" Adam thrust his large gift box onto Larson's lap. "Open it, already!"

Larson began to slowly unwrap the box, careful to avoid tearing up the paper and creating lots of little scraps that would be difficult to clean up later.

"Hopefully it's okay," Adam began, somewhat worried. "The walk over here was real nasty, so there was a lot of snow that I had to brush off of it."

"Yeah," McGill agreed. "Same here. It's really coming down cats and dogs out there!"

Larson chuckled slightly. "That's an expression for rain, not snow, Einstein."

McGill chuckled. Adam and Larson were the only people who could poke fun at him without receiving a knuckle sandwich in return.

With the last of the wrapping paper removed, Larson gasped as he took in the sight of the brand new Sega Genesis that Adam had gotten him. Had it come from any other boy, Larson would have accused him of showing-off his enormous sums of allowance money; but the defenseman knew that Adam was self-conscious about his family's wealth and simply bought a good friend the nicest present that he could get his hands on.

Larson hardly had any time to mutter "thank you," and set the video game console down when McGill plopped five smaller boxes onto his lap. Had the defenseman not opened the larger box first, he would not have hazarded a guess as to what the smaller packages contained. But he knew. And in true Golden Trio form, Adam and McGill had collaborated for the good of the third member.

The slow, careful pace at which Larson opened the five small presents irritated McGill somewhat, but the forward kept quiet. He was not about to give Larson a hard time on his birthday, no matter how anxious he was to setup the system and start playing.

At last, Larson finished opening McGill's presents to discover five video games to go with the console: _Sonic_ _the_ _Hedgehog_ , _Mortal_ _Kombat_ , _Desert_ _Strike_ , _Kid_ _Chameleon_ , and _Tetris._

With the gift-opening complete, McGill grabbed the video games and beckoned his friends to follow.

"C'mon! Let's set this thing up!"

Larson winced. Unlike his wealthier friends, who each had TVs in their own bedrooms, the only television in the Larson household was in the living room, where Bill ruled with an iron fist. The modest den was a sanctuary for the prison guard after a long day of dealing with human filth at work, and Paul doubted that his Old Man would ever allow his peace to be disturbed by the sound of kids playing video games.

But Adam agreed with McGill, grabbing the console and following him out the door.

"Yeah, let's go!"

Larson sighed,reluctantly following his enthusiastic friends into the hall and down the stairs to the living room. Sure enough, the Old Man had been lounging on the brown couch, his long legs dangling over the far arm, along with a cigarette in his mouth and a can of Old Milwaukee in his hand. Bill Larson's penetrating blue eyes followed the sound of his disturbance over to the Golden Trio, who stood in the arch that opened into the foyer.

"What's all that?" Bill indicated the video games and console with his head.

Paul swallowed nervously.

"Um, Adam and Jake got me these for my birthday, sir."

Bill gave a barely-perceptible nod in response, his face expressionless.

The Golden Trio stood just outside the living room in uncomfortable silence, none of them knowing what to say, and none of them daring to walk into Bill Larson's fortress of solitude. The air was thick with tension, punctuated by the Old Man's cigarette smoke. The prison guard allowed what seemed like eternity to the boys to pass before he finally gave his response.

At long last, he ground his cigarette into an ashtray, grabbed his copy of the _Minneapolis Star-Tribune_ and rolled it up – causing his son to swallow nervously. A rolled-up newspaper was not Bill's weapon of choice, but he still used it on Paul from time to time.

"I suppose you'll want to get that thing set up then."

"Yes, sir," Paul squeaked in response. "If that's alright with you," he hastened to add.

"I'll just take this into the kitchen, then," Bill held up his newspaper, prompting Paul to flinch.

But the boy did not feel anything strike him. His father continued.

"Let me know if you boys need any help."

As all six feet and five inches of Bill's powerful frame walked past Paul and toward the kitchen, the boy could not help but stare wide-eyed at his father's back. He simply could not believe that the Old Man would allow him to play video games. But his eager friends soon snapped him out of his stupor.

"Come on!" McGill urged. "Let's do this already!"

The Golden Trio got to work setting up the Sega before happily killing several hours, oblivious to the intensifying snowstorm that raged outside.

As the afternoon set in, Maria bundled-up and approached the front door.

"I'M GONNA GO GRAB PAUL'S BIRTHDAY COOKIES!" She called to her husband.

"Fine. Just be careful," Bill's low voice boomed back from the kitchen table.

Paul had forgotten all about his mother's promise to go and get him his beloved Italian cookies. As the boy gazed at the ferocious weather, he felt a premonition. He wanted his mother to stay close to him. Even Altieri's cookies were not worth seeing her venture into that white-out. He set his game controller down, shot up from the couch, and almost sprinted to his mother.

"Really, Mom," he implored, squeezing her waist. "You don't have to go. This birthday's been awesome enough without the cookies."

But Maria shook her head as she gently pried her son off of her.

"A promise is a promise," she insisted. "And besides….I'm from _Duluth,"_ she added in a slightly boastful way. "We call _this,"_ she indicated the blizzard outside, "A drizzle."

"Well, don't go out in a drizzle then," he pleaded.

"Sweetie, it's nothing!" Maria countered. "I'll be back in just a little bit. Go on, play with your friends!"

Paul bit on his cheek as his eyes began to moisten. He threw his arms around her yet again and buried his face into her chest.

Maria patted her son's back but had no idea why he was being so dramatic. For one thing, it was unlike him, and as a native to the Upper Midwest, she had a great deal of experience with blizzards. To her, they were something to be mindful of, not anything to fear.

She pried him off her chest before giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Go on, play with your friends!" She insisted again _. "I'll be fine."_

Paul sighed, then reluctantly turned back toward the living room. Maria seized the opportunity to throw open the front door, bringing in a howling gust of winter wind. Unfazed, she marched directly into it and shut the door behind her before her son could offer any further protests. The boy made the short walk back to the living room in a manner similar to an inmate marching down Death Row.

Once Larson reached the couch, Adam immediately extended a controller, inviting the defenseman to play. But Larson shook his head.

Adam shrugged, then continued to play _Sonic the Hedgehog_ with McGill. The center felt bad about hogging the controller, but it appeared that Larson really had no interest in playing for some reason. Adam continued to grapple with McGill until around dinner time, when his stomach growled.

"Hey, Paul," he spoke-up, causing Larson to turn. "Uh, not to be rude...but when can we eat?"

"Yeah, I'm starving," McGill agreed.

As if snapping out of a trance, Larson whipped around to the wall-mounted clock, confirming that a full four-and- a-half hours had passed, and his mother still had not returned. As he began to fear the worst, the phone rang from the kitchen. He shot up and bolted for the phone, hoping against hope for good news. But his father beat him to it.

As Bill Larson absorbed the news of his wife's car crash and the inability of first responders to revive her, his steely gaze sent shivers down his son's spine.

Immediately, Paul knew, and began to softly weep.

Bill replaced the phone on the wall-mounted cradle, then looked at his heart-broken son.

 _The little shit just had to have his damn cookies._

Paul looked up at his father to see pure hatred radiate from Bill's steel blue eyes. He winced as his Old Man's knuckles cracked in a pair of angry fists.

In his panic, the boy forgot his grief as his father closed-in on him. The boy could smell the rot of cheap tobacco on Bill's breath, and saw the one thing that he dreaded above all else: the furious vein pushing against his father's forehead.

"Tell your friends to go home," Bill growled. "Now!"

* * *

The Hawks, the Spinellis –Maria's family – and most of the Larsons turned up at the funeral. Geno Altieri, owner of Altieri's Bakery, generously donated a beautiful dessert platter for the reception. His famous Italian cookies, the mere thought of which used to make Paul Larson drool, now made the boy sick to his stomach as he observed the colorful little pastry cakes on display. That was one treat he would never be able to enjoy again.

Emotionally and physically, he had been through the wringer the past several days, and by the time they sealed his mother's remains in the mausoleum, Paul Larson had run out of tears to shed. The defenseman had felt completelyy numb amid all the condolences and platitudes about his mother going to a better place, until his maternal grandmother approached him with his Aunt Michelle.

Grandma Spinelli's naturally raven-colored hair had grayed years earlier, and the 56-year old dyed her short hair blonde. Michelle still had a rich shade of dark hair, although it could no longer be entirely attributed to nature; the 31-year old assiduously darkened out the gray hairs that had begun to sprout.

Although Maria had only been three years older than her sister, life had taken its toll on her, and it showed on her prematurely-aged face. The eternal bags, the wrinkles, the gray hairs that she had given up concealing, and a weary smile that never seemed to reach the eyes all pointed to a life that was burdensome to live.

Paul Larson suddenly came crashing back to earth, and the reality of his loss knocked the wind right out of him as his grandmother handed him a wallet-sized color photograph of his mother. Immediately, Michelle guided her nephew into a nearby chair.

Against all expectations, Paul felt his eyes glisten once more as he looked at the smiling teenager in the photograph. It was Maria Spinelli, before she became Maria Larson.

She looked impossibly young, happy, and pretty. Her brown eyes had a lively honey shade to them that Paul found especially compelling. His mother always seemed to have such dark and dejected eyes – characteristics that she had passed on to him.

He looked up with a start as his grandmother cleared her throat.

"She wasn't always that poor woman in the coffin," she declared. "I thought you should see that. Please…keep it," she indicated the photo with her head.

The boy nodded slightly, uncertain whether the photograph was really a gift or a punishment. He loved seeing his mother the way she had been as a high school senior, but it vexed him that the girl in the photo had died many years before everyone had gathered for her funeral. His mother had, in effect, died twice.

Eventually, Paul slid the photo into his front pocket. In all the years to follow, he could hardly stand to look at it; but he could never bring himself to get rid of or destroy it. Every day after the funeral, he would quickly seize the photo, avert his eyes, and slide it into his pocket. It served as a permanent reminder that he both cherished and despised.


	8. D5 No More

**Chapter Eight: D5 No More**

Gordon Bombay desperately needed to clear his head. The Jets had just handed his D5ers yet another humiliating defeat, only this time it carried the added sting of Gordon's failure as a coach. He had urged his players during the week leading up to the game to **_"Take the fall, act hurt,_** ** _get indignant_** ," in the hopes of tipping the scales in their favor by drawing dubious penalties.

But this tactic had backfired.

D5 lost the game, and Gordon lost his locker room. Not that his 'bond' with the kids had been especially warm, or even tepid, but what little respect that the players had for their coach evaporated when they lost cheating. After dismissing Lewis, the driver hired by Gordon's law firm, the troubled young lawyer made the trip on foot from the arena to an old childhood retreat.

He thought he had seen his old friend Hans in the stands after D5's meltdown against the Hawks. But as soon as Gordon had moved to catch-up with the skate merchant, Hans vanished. Gordon had lost his father as a child; he had no siblings, no wife, no steady girlfriend, and no real friends. A competent, but cocky young lawyer, Gordon's colleagues at the firm respected him on a professional level, but disliked him on a personal one. He needed someone to talk to, and the only person to whom he could was Hans.

Gordon just hoped that his eyes had not been playing tricks on him back at the arena.

Cutting across the deserted frozen pond that served as a testing ground for Hans' customers, Gordon approached the backdoor to the shop. He had not set foot in the store for twenty years, but the young man got back into his old habit of walking through the backdoor after hours as if he had done so only yesterday.

The door was unlocked, and Gordon quietly sauntered in, observing the burly old Norwegian hard at work sharpening skates. Gordon felt a slight tinge of pity at the realization that his old friend never stopped working, even after closing time, yet had little to show for it. Then again, Gordon was a well-paid professional who was completely miserable. Perhaps the old man had discovered something about life that had eluded Gordon.

Hans switched off the machine and removed his work goggles, but did not turn around.

" **Gordon,"** he said flatly, without any kind of doubt in his voice.

Gordon was amazed by how strong the old man's hearing still was, even after decades of sharpening skates without earmuffs.

" **How did you know?"**

" **Through the backdoor – at this time of night, like you used to?"**

Hans turned to face his visitor.

" **You'd spend hours watching me do this,"** the skate merchant added with a smile.

Gordon permitted himself a slight smile. Privately, he was delighted that Hans was still around, and had remembered him all these years later.

" **What do you think?"** Hans asked, approaching Gordon with a skate in hand. **"Is this sharp enough?"**

The old skate merchant ran an index finger across the blade.

" **Ack!"**

A worried look washed over Gordon's face as he approached his childhood friend.

" **Did you cut yourself?"**

The old man flashed a mischievous grin.

" **No,"** he chortled. **"You always fell for that."**

Gordon shook his head, but could not help grinning just a little bit.

" **God, you're morbid, Hans."**

The skate merchant shrugged.

" **Well, I'm Scandinavian."**

" **It's nice to see you."**

" **Sure, sure sure,"** Hans replied, turning away. **"You probably thought I was dead."**

Gordon laughed, relieved that Hans had not held a grudge after all of the years where Gordon had not bothered to keep in touch. The solitary young man had a friend after all.

" **I saw you at the game the other day"** Gordon declared. **"Why didn't you say anything?"**

" **You were so busy screaming at the kids; I didn't want to spoil the moment."**

Gordon's smile vanished at the shameful memory as Hans turned and walked to the shop's front counter. Gordon followed, observing all the memorabilia mounted to the walls. Had Gordon's departure from hockey been a happier one, the same old photos, gear, and newspaper clippings would have caused a warm wave of nostalgia to wash over him. But he left hockey as a broken-hearted little boy, and the images of his childhood brought him no joy.

" **Everything's the same,"** he glumly observed.

" **The game hasn't changed, why should my store?"**

Gordon moved behind the counter to inspect the photos when Hans spoke up.

" **I heard you became a doctor."**

" **Lawyer,"** Gordon clarified.

" **Ah, that's too bad."** Hans turned to face Gordon. **"Do you enjoy that?"**

" **Well, I hardly ever lose a case."**

" **That is** ** _not_** **what I asked."**

Gordon's heart sank as he discovered that the old article, _Hawk Championship Streak Ends,_ and his accompanying photograph from 1973 had remained firmly in place. No matter how hard he wished, some things never changed.

 _Even after twenty years._

" **I see you still have this up,"** Gordon indicated the offending article with his head. **"Thanks very much."**

" **It's important to remember the past."**

" **I'd just as soon forget it. That was the worst time of my life. My dad died that year."**

" **The two are not related,"** Hans offered with a gentle smile.

" **No, but it felt like they were."**

Hans turned toward the counter and retrieved a black-and-white photograph. In it, Gordon's father was flanked by a younger Hans and an 8-year old Gordon holding a huge trophy.

" **I found this not long ago,"** the skate merchant announced, handing the picture to Gordon.

Gordon took it, and was brought back to a time when hockey brought him joy. It seemed like lifetimes ago.

" **He was proud of you,"** Hans reminded him.

" **I miss him."**

Gordon set the photo down on the counter, and moved away from Hans. The young man could feel the waterworks coming on, and he instinctively turned his back on his witness. He had abandoned hockey long ago, but the old macho culture of the Hawks had left its imprint. The only thing worse than crying was _to be caught_ crying.

" **You scored 198 goals in that season, Gordon. It's a shame you quit. You…"**

"… **.Coulda gone all the way, yeah."**

" **No. You really loved to play. You remember?"**

Gordon turned to face an approaching Hans.

" **You remember…you used to play on the pond by the docks, 'til your father called you back. You really flew on that ice, Gordon."**

" **It's all I ever wanted to do,"** Gordon replied softly.

" **Why did you stop – Reilly? I saw what he did to you. Reilly is an idiot."**

Gordon shrugged.

" **The guy wins."**

" **It's not about winning, Gordon – it never was. Just show them how to play, show them how to have fun; teach them to** ** _fly!"_**

Gordon met his old friend's gentle gaze.

" **That is what they'll remember long after you've gone back to being a doctor…"**

" **Lawyer."**

"... **And long after they've stopped buying skates from me. Here,"** Hans turned back to the counter to retrieve a pair of skates.

" **There you are,"** he handed them to Gordon. **"Sharpened, laced, ready to go."**

" **What's this?"**

" **Your new skates…that is why you came here tonight, isn't it?"**

Gordon laughed slightly, grateful to his friend for shifting to business before things could get too mawkish.

" **I figured 9-and-a-half was your size,"** Hans speculated.

" **Um…actually, I'm a 9."**

" **Wear thick socks, Gordon. Enjoy them!"**

* * *

Early the next morning, Gordon returned to the pond by the skate shop to test out Hans' gift. He did as instructed, taking care to wear an extra pair of wool socks. But as he stepped onto the ice, he could not shake the feeling that Hans was just a little bit crazy. Gordon had not skated since the Vietnam War, and being court-ordered to coach a struggling Pee Wee team had done nothing to diminish his aversion to the ice.

Then, he got moving.

As he glided effortlessly across the pond, Gordon felt like he had finally returned home. The old turns and backpedals returned to him with such ease that an observer might be forgiven for thinking that Gordon had been on the ice for all of the past twenty years. As familiar as the moves were, the young man soon discovered that his conditioning was not what it used to be, and he soon became spent.

Laying on a snow bank, he stared at the dawn above while memories of his marathon practice sessions on the pond near his home in Edina came flooding back. Despite all the effort that he put into them, these sessions never felt like work to the boy; and as Hans pointed out, he only stopped when his father told him that it was time to come back inside. But on many occasions, even that was not enough. Gordon remembered how he would plead with his father to let him stay out just a little bit longer; Mr. Bombay obliged on most occasion, even though it meant shivering in the cold with nothing to do but watch his son skate around.

Little Number 9 of the Hawks had always been one with the ice.

Against all expectations, Gordon felt grateful that some things never changed as daylight broke.

He resolved to do everything that he could to instill the same love of the ice in his players – a love that he had forgotten in his obsessive drive to win. First with the Hawks and later as a lawyer, Gordon's relentless competitive streak had obscured the simple joy of doing what he loved for its own sake. Having seen how deep into the abyss that had taken him, he resolved that he would never again allow his competitiveness to rob his players of the simple pleasure of the ice.

* * *

Making the private pledge was one thing, but making good on it was quite another. Gordon had spent the entire day preparing to face Charlie Conway, but all that preparation had not made the task any easier. The hotshot lawyer who never admitted to losing a case was terrified of the brave little 10-year old who had the guts to defy his orders to cheat. Charlie was not the best player on the team, but it was clear to Gordon that Charlie was its emotional leader. Any attempt by Gordon to connect with his locker room was doomed to fail without Charlie's support; and the smooth-talking lawyer was not thrilled about the prospect of having to beg a 10-year old for forgiveness.

But he remembered the epiphany that he had experienced at the pond. There was no going back. Gordon threw open the door to Charlie's apartment building, and walked briskly up the stairs to the boy's home.

He arrived at his destination a bit quicker than he had anticipated. With one last sigh to fortify his resolve, he knocked on the door.

Charlie's mother, Casey, made the short walk across the living room and looked through the peephole. She sighed at the sight of the man who had inflicted so much misery on her son and the other kids on D5, and had every intention of ignoring him.

But the knocking persisted.

 _Don't do it,_ Casey told herself.

The knocking continued.

 _He's a jerk. He probably wants to yell at Charlie again._

 _Knock .Knock. Knock._

 _Well, I guess I might as well tell him to get lost.  
_

Gordon raised his fist once more, and as he was about to knock, the door opened.

" **Hi, I…."**

" **Just go away,"** Casey interrupted. **"Charlie doesn't want to be on the team anymore; and neither he, nor I have anything to say to you."**

She began to close the door when Gordon threw an arm bar.

" **Well I have something to say to you,"** he declared.

" **Really? Door-to-door misery in the night? Now the team can feel miserable between games too, huh?"**

" **I came to apologize to Charlie,"** Gordon began weakly. **"To….** ** _both_** **of you."**

" **What?"**

" **Apologize."**

Part of him could not believe that the words that were coming out of his mouth; in the courtroom he had never taken any prisoners. But he knew that repentance offered the only path forward in this case.

A surprised look flashed across Casey's face, but it soon gave way to steeliness.

" **Oh? Well you should."**

She opened the door wider to allow him in. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Gordon could not help but notice that the 31-year old waitress who looked at him like dirt was definitely on the pretty side. Given Casey's smooth, alabaster skin, green eyes and strawberry blonde curls, Gordon instinctively studied her hand for a wedding band before checking himself.

 _Get a grip, Bombay._

With his light brown hair, blue eyes and fit – if somewhat short – build, Gordon found women easy enough to attract, even if settling into relationships proved impossibly difficult. But his mind rejected his natural impulse to flirt. He had bigger fish to fry. And he was pretty sure that Casey was the sort of woman who would knock him out cold if he tried anything funny.

" **Charlie – somebody's here to see you,"** she called out.

Gordon walked in.

The apartment was so small that it took Charlie all of five seconds to discover who his visitor was. His natural enthusiasm quickly subsided as he took in the sight of the man who had been so nasty to him and his friends.

" **Hey Charlie, how are you doing?"**

The boy simply looked down at the floor, hoping that Bombay would say what he needed to say, then go away.

" **I was…walkin' around thinkin' and uh…"** Gordon looked back to Casey who had been standing next to him, with folded arms. **"Could you give us a minute?"**

Casey sighed but complied, making her way across the living room as Gordon and Charlie took their seats across from each other. But just because she had to leave the room, it did not mean that she had to move beyond hearing range, so Casey planted herself on the other side of the wall that separated the living room from the hallway that led to the bedrooms – ready to coldclock her visitor if he hurt her little boy again.

Gordon looked up at Charlie.

" **Listen, it was very wrong of me to ask you and the other guys to cheat. And I never should have said what I said to you; I was angry, I was frustrated, and it took a lot of guts for you to do what you knew was right. I admire that.**

Charlie looked up.

" **And uh…"** Gordon continued. **"I just wanted to tell you that I'm…um…boy this is difficult. I'm…"**

" **You're sorry!"** Casey offered from her hiding spot.

" **I'm sorry…."** Gordon agreed, flashing a surprised look at the wall. **"I'm sorry, alright? Both to you and your mom. Hopefully you'll have a lot more fun this time around. Whaddaya say?**

The 10-year old thought for just a second before looking back up at Gordon.

" **Do you wanna stay for dinner?"**

Gordon shot a surprised look at the boy. He had been expecting protests, a "get lost," or at best, a reluctant acceptance of his apology. The invitation caught him off guard.

" **Charlie?!"**

Gordon watched Casey make her way back into the living room. Apparently, she had been equally surprised by her son's generosity of spirit.

" **Um…no, I can't,"** Gordon began, earning an understanding nod from Casey.

Then he paused for a second or two.

" **Well…what are you having?"**

Casey gave her guest a slight smile. He was beginning to seem like a nice enough guy, and his willingness both to apologize and to stick around for dinner had shown some guts on his part.

 _Maybe it'll all work out,_ she thought.

* * *

With Charlie in his corner, Gordon knew that the locker room was as good as his. Now it was just a matter of getting his players properly-equipped. After his enjoyable dinner with the Conways, he strolled into his firm's office first thing the very next morning. At the insistence of his boss, Gerald Ducksworth, Gordon had taken a leave of absence while he performed his community service.

Gordon, a workaholic who had practically lived in his office, had not been at the firm for the last several weeks. Unlike his return to the ice, his return to Ducksworth, Saver and Gross did not feel like a homecoming. He could not quite put his finger on why, but his old workplace and second home just did not feel quite right to him anymore.

Remembering the important task at hand, he took a deep breath after the receptionist announced that Mr. Ducksworth was ready to see him. Marching into his boss' office, Gordon slipped into lawyer mode, ready to fight like hell for his client; only this time, his client was his team.

Gerald Ducksworth, a tall, trim older man with gray hair and brown eyes, ushered his young protégé into his spacious corner office. Ducksworth had always appreciated Gordon's immense contributions to the firm, and had pulled out all the stops to prevent his gifted young shark from doing any jail time or losing his license to practice law. The whole Pee Wee coaching thing had been Ducksworth's idea, but Gordon cherished no illusions that his boss was keen to fund a hockey team. The young lawyer knew that he had to bring his A-game, so he brought it.

Ducksworth watered his office plants as Gordon prepared to make his pitch.

" **Mr. Ducksworth, there are two reasons that I came by. First off, I want to let you know that things are going well. I'm learning a lot about teamwork, fair play...and all that other junk."**

" **Good, good. And the second thing?"**

" **Well, sir…fair play doesn't come cheap. These kids – my team – have no money. They can't afford rink time, safe equipment, or proper uniforms, which makes it difficult for them to compete. Now imagine, sir, being 10-years old and stepping out onto that ice with old copies of** ** _The Inquirer_** **taped to your shins instead of pads. The point I'm trying to make, sir, is that you wouldn't be taken seriously. And neither are these kids. So I thought, maybe the firm could help 'em out."**

" **How much are we talking about?"** Ducksworth asked, taking a seat behind his stately oak desk.

" **Fifteen thousand dollars."**

Ducksworth shook his head.

" **No way."**

" **Wait a minute, think of the goodwill,"** Gordon began, thrusting an index finger in a dramatic lawyerly pose. **"We name the team after the firm, and suddenly, we're the good guys! Ducksworth, Saver, and Gross,"** he a made sign with his hands. **"The firm that gives back to the community."**

Ducksworth rubbed his chin. He knew the value of good publicity, but he was a miser at heart – that was why he had always refused to advertise. But Gordon knew his boss well. That chin stroke indicated that Ducksworth was seriously considering Gordon's proposal. The young lawyer moved to seal the deal.

" **C'mon, I'll get you your own jersey!"**

Ducksworth looked up, unable to hide the excitement in his eyes.

Gordon knew that the money was his.

* * *

Backed by his firm's deep coffers, Gordon marched his players into Hans' skate shop and got them hooked-up with all the best gear, all the while repaying his old friend's loyalty with oodles of business. The shopping trip went well for the most part. The kids were thrilled with their new equipment, and Gordon witnessed the impressive specter of Fulton Reed for the first time.

Guy, Jesse and Goldberg each offered different descriptions of the tall, dark and older-looking boy to their coach. According to the nicer rumors, Fulton had been offered football scholarships by prep schools,and even a few colleges; but according to some of the nastier rumors, he was a genetic experiment and/or a kid who got held back a couple times. But as Gordon watched the strongly-built kid pull a locked hockey stick out of a display and hand it to Charlie, his old competitive instincts made him wonder how far he could ride Fulton's considerable strength.

But all of that would have to wait another day. The strong, quiet boy had already left the shop by the time Gordon decided to approach him. Instead, the D5 coach turned and settled his team's hefty bill as a grateful Hans rung them up.

* * *

Now equipped in their shiny new training gear, D5 was ready to hit the ice – feeling like a real hockey team for the first time. As they waited by the Lexan for the public skating session to end, a pair of young figure skaters caught Gordon's eye. He learned from Terry Hall that they were Tammy and Tommy Duncan. Tammy, the older and taller one, was blonde and slim, while her younger brother was short, stocky and had red hair. Gordon privately mused that Tommy Duncan was the one boy in Minnesota who could make Peter Mark look gigantic by comparison.

Nevertheless, their moves were compelling, and Gordon figured that they could make elusive hockey players. He ordered his players to get dressed while he **"handled the** **negotiations."**

If a seasoned and cynical lawyer like Gerald Ducksworth had been unable to resist Gordon's powers of persuasion, then the Duncan siblings never stood a chance. They agreed to join the team, in spite of Tammy's worries about their mother's disapproval, and her apparent ignorance of hockey.

Tommy had insisted on playing, and when his sister planted him butt-first onto the ice, he realized that Tammy knew more about hockey than she had been letting on.

The Duncans joined their new teammates in a fun and informative practice session that featured passing drills with eggs, and firing a barrage of pucks at Greg Goldberg. Having never been properly-equipped, he had always feared the puck, and dove accordingly. But as wave after wave of pucks bounced harmlessly off his new pads, his fear melted away.

" **I am Goldberg….THE GOALIE!"**

His teammates had been generous in their support, chanting his name as they pounded their sticks against the ice. But he was less-than-amused when they had left him tied to his net as they skated back to their locker room.

" **Very funny….don't** ** _make_** **me come after you!"** Goldberg called, skating toward the tunnel, and dragging his net with him.

* * *

Having lost his limousine after D5 ruined the upholstery, Gordon rode shotgun in a gray Ford van as Lewis drove. As Gordon recounted a memorable exchange during one of his cross-examinations, his window smashed, prompting him to jump.

The glass had not shattered, but it was badly webbed. Something had hit it with tremendous velocity. Lewis applied the brakes and went into reverse, eager to find the source of the damage.

Once the van was lined-up with an alleyway, Gordon alighted and gave chase to the kid who smashed a hockey puck into his firm's van: Fulton Reed.

One-on-one at last with Fulton, Gordon was determined to recruit the boy to his hockey team. After determining that the rumors about Fulton's age, scholarship and genetic status were all bogus, Gordon invited him to join the team, only to be rebuffed.

It turned out that the boy did not know how to skate.

But as Fulton sent a heavy chest flying with another one of his devastating slap-shots, Gordon refused to let Fulton slip through his hands.

" **Is that all that's stopping you?"**

* * *

Fulton joined District 5 on a skating trip through the expansive Mall of America. Gordon had tried his best to instruct the boy, but Fulton went wild and sent some poor woman flying into a fountain – causing her to lose her hairpiece.

" **Sorry!"** He called back as he careened through the long promenade.

Just like his slap-shot, Fulton could skate with considerable force; and like his slap-shot, the problem was his inaccuracy.

He slid wildly from side to side until he felt a slight, but steadying hand clasp around his right forearm. He looked down to see the smiling face of Tammy Duncan.

"I figured you could use a hand," she declared, linking her arm with his.

Fulton nodded in response, unable to find his voice. He was shy, and the combination of his quiet nature and his size made him seem weird kid to other kids his age. Hence, the rumors. It also did not help that the girl who was steadying him happened to be a pretty little figure skater who he secretly admired from afar. Eventually, he managed to find his voice. But he was cutoff as he inhaled.

"Head's up!" Tammy warned, releasing Fulton from her grasp as they approached an island of trees.

The pair separated and skated parallel to each other as they moved past the promenade divider.

The two regrouped once they were past the trees; Fulton extended his arm, and Tammy immediately linked it.

"See, you're getting the hang of this!"

Her words of encouragement were entirely honest. She did not see the need to continue clasping arms, but she was not about to complain. They quietly skated together for a few minutes, and just when Fulton had finally worked up the courage to tell the pretty blonde that she was "incredible," Connie Moreau looked back at the two.

"Hey, Tammy! Race ya to the roller coaster!"

Tammy removed her arm from Fulton's grasp at once.

"Oh, it's on!"

As the petite blonde closed the gap with Connie, Fulton had a longing look in his eyes. But at least he could now skate.

* * *

D5's new uniforms had arrived just in time for their showdown against the Cardinals. Despite their initial reluctance, Gordon persuaded his skeptical players that ducks were cool because they were tough and they flew together. Beginning with Fulton, and followed by Charlie, all of D5 eventually agreed to become Ducks, and they happily accepted their new green jerseys.

Gordon had made up his "Ducks fly together" spiel on the fly, but he was struck by his own words, and by the contrast of this particular bird with the hawk. The hawk was a solitary bird of prey that only looked out for itself. The duck was a social bird that could fly or swim, but always stuck to its flock. As a boy, being a Hawk seemed like the coolest thing. But with age came wisdom, and he knew that hawks just could not compete with ducks.

His newly-equipped Ducks hit the ice and forced a tie on yet another kind of bird: the Cardinals. It was not a win, but it was the first time that his team had not lost, and they were all ecstatic.

After the game, Gordon came to visit Hans at the skate shop to celebrate, and received three startling revelations from the jovial skate merchant: the Ducks were still playoff-eligible; new boundary lines meant that Gordon would not have been a Hawk; and most tantalizing of all , the _other_ Hawk Number 9, Adam Banks, lived in Duck territory.

Gordon finally accepted that winning wasn't _everything_ , but that did not mean that winning was nothing, either. His mind excitedly raced with possibilities at the thought of Adam Banks joining his Ducks.


	9. Out of Bounds

**Chapter Nine: Out of Bounds  
**

Gordon walked alongside a suited, bespectacled gentleman from the League Office and braced himself for the confrontation with Jack Reilly. He knew that his old Pee Wee coach would not let Adam Banks go without a fight, but the League rules were on Gordon's side, it was just a matter of breaking the news to the formidable Hawk coach.

Gordon had faced some tough judges during his legal career, but none of them were ever as intimidating as Jack Reilly. Grim-faced and dressed entirely in Hawk black, he even _looked_ like a judge. Gordon had to remind himself that unlike a judge, Reilly was in no position to arbitrate on this matter.

 _The law is the law._

Reilly had been keeping vigil on the Hawk bench, tossing and catching a puck while his team warmed-up for their game against the Tigers when Gordon and the League official approached.

" **Excuse me, Coach Reilly?"** The official called out.

" **Yeah?"** Reilly caught his puck and took in the sight of his visitors.

The official handed Reilly a copy of the district map before he made the announcement.

" **I'm afraid there's a bit of a problem."**

" **What's that?"**

" **It seems that one of your players is ineligible."**

Reiily's eyes widened as he saw a red dot labeled 'Banks' on the wrong side of the boundary that delineated Hawk and Duck territory. The old coach looked over at the ice, watching Number 9 do what he did best. He desperately hoped that this was a misunderstanding.

" **Banks!"** Reilly called out. **"Over here!"**

Adam ceased his warm-ups, took off his helmet, and began making his way over to the bench.

" **This has gotta be a joke, right?"** Reilly asked the official.

He noticed that Gordon had been standing next to the League representative. There was always the possibility that one of his old players was simply messing with their old coach. Adam's father, Philip, made his way down from the stands and into the bench upon hearing his son's name get called.

Philip Banks was a partner at a rival law firm of Gordon's. He vaguely knew Gordon as a brash young lawyer who had gone and gotten himself arrested for drunk driving. It amazed Philip that such a man was allowed to even keep his law license, let alone be placed in a position of responsibility for children.

" **I'm afraid it's no joke,"** the League official informed Reilly.

" **Is there a problem, Coach Reilly?"** Philip asked.

The 41-year old lawyer had just gotten off work and still wore his suit and tie beneath his light brown overcoat. With his medium build, six-foot frame, thinning brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and authoritative demeanor, Philip had a bearing that said _don't screw with me._ Few people ever dared to.

" **Oh no, it's just a mistake, Mr. Banks,"** Reilly assured Philip as he handed the map back to the League official.

Adam put on the brakes, having arrived at the bench.

The official looked over to Philip.

" **Are you this boy's father – uh 450 North Hennepin Avenue, is that your address?"**

" **Yes."**

" **Well I'm afraid there's no mistake,"** the official pointed to Adam. **"T** **his boy's playing for the wrong team."**

" **What?!"** Adam could not believe what he was hearing.

" **According to League rules, Adam Banks should be playing for District 5."**

Gordon could forgive the official for not remembering his team's new name. He was, after all, handing Adam Banks to him on a silver platter.

" **My son is a Hawk. Not…a** ** _Duck,"_** the normally diffident Philip spat the word 'Duck.'.

Reilly gave his former star a murderous look.

" **Is this your doin', Gordon?"**

But Gordon was unfazed.

" **I'll expect to see him at our next game,"** he looked over to Adam. **"We'll have a uniform waiting for ya."**

But Adam shook his head violently.

" **No way!"**

" **My son would rather not play than play for your team,"** Philip declared, drawing a startled look from Adam.

The talented center had no wish to leave his friends and join the worst team in the League, but even that was better than not being able to play at all.

" **Fine, if that's the way you want it,"** Gordon replied. **"But remember, if Adam plays for the Hawks…you'll have to forfeit every game for the rest of the season."**

Reilly looked away in disgust, rubbing the back of his head.

" **Boy I'd hate to see that,"** Gordon smirked before turning to leave.

The League official extended the map toward Adam and Philip.

" **Look, I'm sorry this had to happen. But you can see on the map, it's very clearly delineated…"**

Reilly's steely eyes followed Gordon off the ice. He was used to getting his way all the time, and now one of his old players had the audacity to mess with him. Even if he could not keep Adam, Reilly was determined to fight. He had to let that _little pipsqueak_ Gordon know who was boss. As the League official continued to explain the situation to Adam and Philip, Reilly gave chase.

" **Gordon?"** He called to his former star in the concourse.

But the Duck coach continued to walk.

" **Hey – Bombay, you stop when I'm talkin' to you, son!"**

Gordon halted, allowing Reilly to catch up.

" **What's the idea, here? You tryin' to sabotage me, or what?"**

Peter Mark and Jesse Hall had observed the confrontation between coaches, and crouched behind a large pillar so they could listen in on the conversation.

" **The law's a bitch when it works against you, isn't it, Jack?"**

Never had the sound of his own name infuriated Jack Reilly as it did in that moment.

" **Look, you got a whole team full of Bankses. One kid isn't gonna make a difference."**

" **Even with Banks, whaddaya think you're gonna prove with that…** ** _bunch of losers?"_**

" **Oh that's right, Coach,"** Gordon laid the sarcasm on thick. **"They are losers, we hate losers, don't we? They don't even deserve to live!"**

Unfortunately, the eavesdropping 10-year-olds took their coach's words literally. The boys turned and left in disgust, missing the rest of the conversation.

" **Maybe you're right,"** Bombay continued in a more serious tone. **"Maybe Banks won't make a difference. But at least we're playing by the rules."**

" **Why'd you turn against me, Gordon? For six years…I taught you how to skate….I taught you how to score…I taught you how to go for the** ** _W!_**

Gordon gave his old coach a somber look. The younger man was beginning to feel a tinge of guilt. He could not deny Reilly's dedication and work ethic, and he had learned an awful lot from his former coach. Old Number 9 was beginning to feel that he had been acting like an ingrate for snatching away New Number 9.

" **You coulda been one of the greats!"** Reilly continued. **"And now look at yourself. You're not even a has-been; you're a** ** _never was."_**

Gordon looked down at the floor while Reilly stormed off. The younger man was beginning to remember why he used to hate the ice so much. He needed to get back to his team quickly, before old cynicism could set in again.

* * *

"So, Phil…we have a deal?" Ducksworth asked from behind his office desk.

He knew that his friend-turned-arch rival, Philip Banks, was desperate to prevent Adam from joining Gordon Bombay's team. So he drove a hard bargain in the negotiations. It vexed Philip just how many rich clients he was being asked to give-up, but he was convinced that nothing less than Adam's future was on the line. Playing for a losing team coached by a drunk did not seem like a way forward for Adam to develop as a player. He would lose precious formative years that he could never get back. The high school scouts would see Adam as a mediocrity, and the college and NHL scouts would not even bother with him at all.

Philip simply could not allow this.

"Yes," he nodded gravely. "But you better damn well deliver, Gerald."

"That won't be a problem," Ducksworth assured him. "Gordon won't piss away his career for some snot-nosed brats."

"He better not," Jack Reilly chirped.

The old Hawk coach was uncharacteristically dapper, complete with a dress shirt and tie beneath his unzipped winter coat. He had ended up taking a sick day at his day job in order to meet Ducksworth, Philip, and Gordon at the law office. In years past, Reilly had shown up to work braving the flu and other nasty ailments, so he felt no qualms about taking a rare sick day despite being in perfectly good health. Besides, keeping Adam on the Hawks was an urgent priority.

The intercom on the desk buzzed. Ducksworth flipped the switch and leaned in.

"Yes?"

" _Gordon Bombay's here, sir,"_ the receptionist announced.

"Good. Stay put, I'll bring him in."

Ducksworth rose from his desk, buttoned his charcoal gray suit coat, and briskly walked to the reception area to greet his young protégé. The canny old lawyer knew that some things required a personal touch; having a secretary walk Gordon into his office simply would not do. So Ducksworth went to greet him personally, noticing that the younger man was wearing a varsity-style Duck coaching jacket.

After exchanging all the necessary pleasantries, Ducksworth guided Gordon into his corner office.

" **Thanks for coming by on such short notice, Gordon,"** He began, closing the door behind them. **"By the way, your court release came through. Congratulations, your community service is over,"** he added with a smile.

Gordon's eyes widened. He had stopped counting his hours a while ago, that he had completed his service came as a genuine surprise.

" **You're kidding? So you wanted to talk about my coming back to work, then?"**

Ducksworth looked over at his grim-faced Hawk guests who were waiting in a small sitting area.

" **Well, actually…."**

Gordon checked his boss, noticing Ducksworth's framed jersey on display.

" **Oh, you got your jersey!"** He enthused. **"You know, a lot's been happening, sir. The Ducks might even make the playoffs!"**

At that, Reilly could not help but laugh out loud.

Gordon followed the sound to discover Philip Banks and Jack Reilly seated at a round wooden table in the far corner of the office.

Ducksworth gently tugged Gordon by the arm, guiding him to the other visitors.

" **Gordon, you know Coach Reilly, and Mr. Banks."**

Gordon turned to face his boss.

" **They're the enemy, sir,"** he whispered.

Ducksworth chuckled.

" **No, Phil is actually one of my oldest friends."**

At that bold piece of insincerity, Philip suppressed a laugh with considerable effort.

 _I wouldn't piss on my 'old friend' if he was on fire._

But even if they lacked mutual affinity, Philip and Ducksworth shared something that was far more important in the business world: a common objective. And in pursuit of that objective, Philip stood up, placed his glasses in the breast pocket of his coat, and approached the shorter hockey coach. When the glasses came off, Philip Banks meant business.

" **Gerald was kind enough to get us all together to try to work out this little problem. You see, my son Adam wants to play for the Hawks. His older brother was a Hawk. All his little friends are Hawks. That's where he belongs."**

" **It's a tradition,"** Reilly interjected. **"Now you understand that, Gordon – you played."**

" **Sure I can, but the League's already ruled on it."**

" **We've talked to the League,"** Philip countered. **"We worked out a little deal."**

" **You guys cut a deal with a Pee Wee hockey league?"** Gordon was shocked that grown men could take a kid's game so seriously.

" **Yes, Gordon. We did,"** Ducksworth confirmed.

" **The long and short of it, is that Adam stays on the Hawks for the rest of the season,"** Reilly announced. **"And then next year, they re-draft the lines…"**

"… **Correctly,"** Philip finished.

" **The League did make one condition,"** Ducksworth added.

" **What's that?"** Bombay asked.

" **That you withdraw your protest."**

Gordon gave a slightly sour look in reponse, but managed to chuckle.

" **That's great,"** he replied.

" **Good!"** Ducksworth enthused, with visions of money dancing in his head. **"Well, that's settled then!"**

Reilly smiled broadly, giving the older lawyer a congratulatory clap on the arm as Ducksworth walked to his desk.

" **No sir,"** Gordon protested. **"You don't understand. I can't withdraw my protest."**

Ducksworth and Philip looked over at the shorter man – Ducksworth with an annoyed expression, Philip with a confused one.

" **What?"** Philip demanded.

" **Mr. Ducksworth, you wanted me to learn about fair play, how to be part of a team. And I may not have learned everything yet, but I remember something my father said to me: '** **A team's not a bunch of kids out to win. A team's something you belong to. Something you feel. Something you have to earn'.** **And I'm not gonna let those kids down."**

Philip and Reilly each gave prodding looks to Ducksworth. Things had not gone according to plan, and it was up to Ducksworth to make them right. After all that he had done for Gordon's career, it saddened him that his favorite young lawyer was so eager to mess with his plans – for no good reason, in Ducksworth's mind. But Ducksworth was not about to let personal affection get in the way of business. With a grave expression, he quietly approached the younger man. If Gordon wanted to make things difficult, Ducksworth was ready to return the favor tenfold.

" **Gordon, I'm going to make this simple. Are you prepared to lose your job over some kids...some** ** _game?"_**

Gordon inhaled slightly, but kept his composure.

" **I ask** ** _you_** **, sir. Are you prepared to fire me over some kids...some game?"**

" **Collect your personal belongings, Gordon."**

The young man felt a brief spike of adrenaline as his lucrative career vanished before his eyes. But before he could brood, his old competitive instincts kicked into gear. He could not do anything about his termination, but it was still within his power to deprive Ducksworth of feeling any kind of satisfaction over it.

" **Yes, sir, Mr. Ducksworth. Thank you very much, Mr. Ducksworth.** ** _Quack, quack, quack, quack,_** **Mr. Ducksworth!** ** _Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack…._**

" **Gordon – Stop. Quacking!"**

" ** _Quack, quack, quack quack!"_** Gordon continued, flapping his arms for good measure. He walked over to the framed jersey. **"You may have paid for this jersey, sir. But you didn't** ** _earn_** **it."**

He looked over to a glowering Jack Reilly.

" **I'll see** ** _you_** **in the playoffs,"** Gordon declared before storming out of the office.

Philip gave his 'old friend' an icy look, appalled by the fact that his son was to be coached by some unemployed maniac who quacked like a duck. He returned to the round table, shoved some documents into a leather folder, and looked back to Ducksworth.

"I'll just be taking my clients back," he announced, moving to the door. "Thanks for nothing, you putz."

* * *

The Golden Trio gathered for their weekly study hall at the Banks Residence. Adam had been forced to leave the game against the Tigers, and had found himself in hockey limbo for the past several days. He was no longer allowed to play or practice with the Hawks, but he was still hoping that his father could work his lawyerly magic and prevent him from joining the Ducks. Despite the center's limbo status, Larson and McGill loyally clung to his side.

At St. Alban's Elementary School, the Golden Trio's reign of terror showed no signs of abating, and there was no hint of tension visible to any of the 'little twerps' who the three boys liked to lord over.

As the Trio sat together at one of the Banks library desks, McGill chuckled as he got to the map of South America in his geography homework.

"Hey guys, look at this country," he pointed to tiny Uruguay wedged between Argentina and Brazil. "U-R-gay….get it?"

Adam laughed with McGill, but Larson remained silent.

"What's wrong, Iceman? Don't you get it?"

Larson put on his blank face and looked back at McGill. He understood the joke perfectly well, but he was starting to find it difficult to laugh at gay jokes. The defenseman had been experiencing some confusing thoughts and feelings that made him hate himself even more than usual, and he doubted that even his best friends could help him make sense of any of it. But even if they could, Paul Larson was not about to show any signs of weakness.

"I get it," he deadpanned. "I just thought it was funnier when I heard it the first time...on _The Simpsons."_

"Ha! Boom!" Adam exclaimed, looking directly at McGill. "You just got served, Jake!"

McGill looked back sheepishly.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

The blustery, but lonely forward loved it when his friends laughed – even when the laughter came at his own expense.

"Nice one, Iceman."

Larson gave McGill an appreciative nod. Beneath the bluster, Jake McGill could be surprisingly sweet. But Larson was not about to risk one of the two friendships he had by sharing his innermost thoughts with McGill. Or Adam, for that matter. But unlike Adam, McGill had been the source of many of Larson's most confusing and hateful thoughts. The defenseman briefly locked onto the enchanting silver-blue eyes of Jake McGill, before looking away in disgust.

McGill frowned at the recoil.

"Let's get back to work," Larson suggested. "Do either of you know what the capital of Argentina is?"

"Buenos Aires," Adam answered. "It means 'good airs,' I think."

His friends scribbled the Argentine capital onto their maps.

"Obviously those people have never been around that fat little goalie for the Ducks. The air's not so good around him!" McGill joked, drawing laughs from both of his friends.

"Hey, speaking of that," he continued, turning to Adam. "What's happening with you and the Ducks?"

Adam shrugged.

"My dad went to meet with the Ducks' coach earlier today. I don't know how it went."

"You mean you didn't ask him when he came home?" Larson asked.

Adam gave the defenseman a funny look.

"Uh, no. Why would I do that? I only talk to Dad when he talks to me."

Larson gave an understanding nod in reply. He knew all too well what it was like having an unapproachable father.

"But I'll ask him at dinner," Adam declared. "Oh, that reminds me – you both can stay for dinner, right?"

Larson and McGill nodded in response. This was one of the rare study halls where the boys' parents allowed them to stay at Adam's for dinner. They both had been looking forward to it all day. The food at the Banks table was always tasty and generously-portioned. And Adam was an awesome friend to have at the dinner table; he would always laugh at the others' jokes and occasionally surprise them with his own dry, sneaky wit.

As long as the boys remembered to follow table etiquette, which was not an issue for either of them, Philip Banks was quite happy to allow the Golden Trio to sit at the end of the table and have their own conversation. Sometimes Michael Banks, Adam's 14-year old brotherm would join them; sometimes he did not. After that ugly incident on the Banks driveway the year before, Michael and Adam no longer had any serious issues beyond the normal brotherly tension that sprung up on occasion. But Michael feared Adam too much to inflict any real bullying.

After a few more minutes of homework and light banter, the classical music that had been softly playing in the library went silent. The Golden Trio looked up at Penny, the English housekeeper, who stood in the doorway and set the remote control to the stereo system down on the end table at her side.

"Dinner is ready, boys!"

The Golden Trio, along with Michael and Eric Banks – who had been working separately on the opposite end of the library – got up at once, and made for the dining room.

The boys sauntered into the elegant dining room that was richly-appointed with ornate Colonial furnishings, hunter green wallpaper, and a plush Persian rug that covered most of the marble floor. The decent-sized room had a wide opening directly into the kitchen on one end, and an opening to the hallway on the other. A stately wooden and glass cabinet housed an impressive collection of china, wine glasses, and decanters. Gently lighting the room was a massive chandelier connected to a dimmer switch.

The great mass of brass and glass had always been the first thing that Adam thought of whenever he heard the term 'earthquake' being thrown around. He definitely knew where he did _not_ want to be when one of those hit.

Everyone took their seats, then went about the pre-meal ritual of passing around the food and filling their own plates before pausing to say Grace.

With all the ritual out of the way, Philip looked over to his guests from his seat at the head of the table.

"You may begin," he declared.

Larson and McGill did not need to be told twice. It took every ounce of their considerable personal discipline to refrain from tearing into the beautifully-cooked prime rib, sweet potatoes, and Greek salad. They did their best to follow etiquette and eat like proper gentlemen, but the process of putting all that delicious food into their bodies felt tortuously slow.

"Well, Adam," Philip began, causing his middle child to look up from his plate. "You probably want to know how my meeting with Coach Bombay went."

"Yes, of course, Dad – please tell me."

"I'm afraid he was unable to see reason," Philip announced, offering an apologetic frown. "I'm sorry, but you can't go back to the Hawks."

Larson and McGill dropped their forks. McGill choked slightly on his steak, but was able to get it down with a few hard slaps on the back from Michael. As Michael whaled away, Larson narrowed his eyes at the older boy, warning him not to hurt his friend.

Adam felt completely numb, and stared blankly at the wall across from him. With Larson being the only coherent one in the Golden Trio, he spoke up.

"So Adam has to be a Duck, Mr. Banks?"

"If he wants to play this year, then yes," Philip answered before turning to his son. "But I don't see what good could possibly come from that. Coach Bombay doesn't seem to have much going on upstairs, and I doubt he can help you develop your talent. I doubt that he can even help himself, to be frank. I mean, the man went and threw away six figures-a-year, then _quacked_ about it. Strange little man, Gordon Bombay."

Philip's dim assessment of Gordon Bombay had the effect of drawing Adam back to the present.

"So you're saying I _can_ play though, right Dad?"

Philip arched an eyebrow, then nodded slowly.

"The decision is yours, Adam. My recommendation is to sit out the rest of the season. Use the extra time to get in more practice. Then, you can return to the Hawks next year when the boundaries get re-drawn. Coach Reilly offers the most for your future, so naturally, we'll see to it that the League draws the boundary lines properly next year."

"But you're not really gonna play with another team, are you Mo?" McGill pleaded.

Adam shrugged.

"I really don't know."

McGill's heart sank. One of his two best friends was giving serious consideration to playing for a rival team. He had hoped that Adam would dismiss the idea outright, but Number 9 was actually thinking about it. The Golden Trio was all that McGill had in life, and now events were tearing it apart.

Larson felt equally gloomy, but did not let it show.

"Take your time, Adam," the defenseman offered. "I'm sure you'll make the right call."

Adam gave an appreciative nod in response.

"Thanks, Paul."

"But there's nothing to think about!" McGill snapped, surprised by his volume.

He looked over to Philip. "Sorry, Mr. Banks," he offered in a lower voice. "But Adam, really – you can't play for the _Little Duckies_ _!_ They'll drag your game down and make you play against me and Paul!"

Adam was unable to hide his growing bitterness and frustration, and snapped right back at his friend.

"Do you think I wanted this, Jake?!"

"I can't believe you're actually giving this any thought!" McGill exclaimed, rising from his seat. "Thank you for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Banks. But I think I lost my appetite, so please excuse me. Let's go, Iceman."

Larson got up from the table, annoyed that he would have to go without a delicious Banks Family dinner, but unwilling to let McGill leave by himself.

"Thank you for having us over, Mr. and Mrs. Banks," the defenseman offered, pushing his chair back in.

He walked over to Adam, and placed a hand on the center's shoulder.

"And no matter what choice you make, Adam, I'll still be your friend."

"Thanks, Paul."

Larson gave Adam's shoulder a quick pat, then moved to catch up with McGill who was already in the hallway. Having already lost his mother, Paul Larson was not about to lose his Golden Trio. And he was willing to play dirty in order to keep his friends together.

 _Us against the world...watch out, World._


	10. A Hawk Wears Green

**Chapter Ten: A Hawk Wears Green**

The gray sky and the sound of sleet pounding against the Lexus reflected the bleak and irritable mood of both father and son as Philip drove Adam to the arena to join Gordon Bombay's Mighty Ducks. The ocean-blue luxury sedan had gotten filthy from all the winter sand kicked up by the snow tires, and the fastidious lawyer made a mental note to get his car washed as soon as the roads cleared. Philip and Adam had not exchanged a word to each other during the drive; the 11-year old was defying his father's advice, and neither of them wanted to talk about it.

Where Philip Banks saw a setback to his son's hockey development, Jake McGill saw an act of treason. Paul Larson, true to form, had been difficult for Adam to read. Although he had already made his mind up several days earlier, Adam knew that his decision would go off like a bomb, and he put off dropping it for as long as possible.

He let out a rueful sigh as his mind took him back to the previous morning.

 _It was a cold but clear Friday, perfect weather for outdoor hockey. But Adam had to go to school, and with the weekend fast approaching, he could no longer put off informing Larson and McGill of his decision. Saturday would be gameday; and if he did not tell his best friends himself, they would find out indirectly later, and probably be all the more upset for being kept in the dark._

" _Yo, Mo!" McGill happily called to Adam as the center approached the bus stop._

" _Hey, Jake."_

 _McGill gave his friend a worried look. He could tell from Adam's unenthusiastic greeting that something was off.  
_

" _What's wrong, Mo?"_

 _Adam stopped, and looked his best friend directly in the eye. As sapphire locked onto silver, it occurred to Adam that it was now or never._

" _I'm going to play for the Ducks."_

 _McGill froze._

 _For a while, Adam wondered if his friend had even heard him. McGill was completely unresponsive. Adam was about to repeat himself when he heard the angry cracks of knuckles, looking down to discover that McGill's hands had clenched into fists._

" _Traitor," McGill growled._

 _"Don't give me that, Jake."_

 _"Don't call me 'Jake,' you little twerp."_

 _Adam's eyes widened. Twerps were the kids that the Golden Trio owned. Adam was surprised by the tag, but his surprise quickly gave way to rage.  
_

 _Drawing back a clenched fist, Adam felt McGill's powerful grip on his wrist, followed by a hard punch to the gut._

 _Doubled over, Adam tried to recover his breath when McGill gave him a hard shove._

 _"Back of the line, Twerp."_

 _The force of the shove caused Adam to stumble backwards and fall to the pavement._

 _The rest of the kids had observed the spectacle in stunned silence. But once they recovered from the shock of seeing a big, powerful bully get his butt handed to him, they burst into laughter. Far more than McGill's fists or the pavement, the laughter of 'the twerps' hurt. Only yesterday, none of those kids would dare so much as look at Adam Banks the wrong way. Now they all laughed at him, to his face._

 _His loss of face – and status – was confirmed when he heard the rumble of the approaching school bus. 'The twerps' lined-up in front of him with a feeling of impunity._

 _The world had gone completely mad. Adam could no longer be a Hawk. Jake McGill despised him. Twerps no longer knew their place in the pecking order. More than ever, Adam Banks craved the ice. He had to get back out there and prove to himself that he was still the same Adam Banks.  
_

"Adam, we're here," Philip announced from the driver's seat.

The center shook his head as his attention was brought back to the present. He unfastened his seat belt and hopped out of the backseat as his father popped the car's trunk, allowing the boy access to his black hockey bag. Naturally, the Hawk logo was printed on it in bold white letters.

Adam grabbed the bag, slung it over his shoulder and approached the driver's side door, hockey stick in hand. Philip rolled down his window.

"Aren't you going to come in, Dad?"

"You know I have a meeting," Philip lied. "But I'll be out in time to pick you up."

Adam nodded, keeping the disappointment that he felt from showing on his face.

"I'll see you later, then."

Philip nodded shortly, rolled up the window, and was off to the races. He had one or two little things to keep him busy at the office, but nothing urgent. He simply could not bear to watch his son play for the League's worst, and the seemingly inevitable decline in Adam's gameplay that would result. For the first time in Adam's hockey life, his father could not even bring himself to record the game on tape. More than anything else, the lack of the family camcorder gave Adam a feeling of hopelessness. As painful as it was to review the tape and see his flaws, at least the tapes had a purpose. With no tapes, there could be no improvement. And with no improvement, Adam would be adrift.

With his father's car having disappeared over the horizon, Adam made the long walk from the parking lot to the arena by himself. In the concourse, he walked past players and parents who were hustling and bustling between games. It seemed remarkable to him that even amidst a sea of people, he felt completely, and utterly alone. That Friday at school, McGill had taken it upon himself to inform the Hawks that Adam was to be treated like pariah, and the center realized that for the first time in his life, he had no friends.

Years of bullying had made Adam an unsympathetic figure to all the non-Hawks at school, and his decision to play for another team made him a traitor to the boys in black – with one possible exception. As Adam stopped short of the locker room door, he was brought back to Larson's arrival on the school bus the day before.

 _Despite being shoved to the back of the line, Adam still had the opportunity to sit at one of the prized benches in the back row of the bus, where he had always sat with McGill. The two benches had always been reserved for the Golden Trio, and the other kids never dared to even look at those green benches, much less sit on them._

 _Adam marched to the back of the bus, ignoring the taunts and jeers coming from the smaller children who no longer feared him. As he arrived at the back rows, McGill shot a murderous look at him._

" _Go away."_

 _Adam returned the glare._

" _Make me."_

 _McGill shot up from his bench and quickly closed the distance, ready to re-acquaint Adam with his fist.  
_

 _But before he could make his move, McGill felt a searing pain in his shoulder cleft, and found himself sinking to the floor against his own will. Adam had applied Larson's infamous pressure-point attack to his oldest friend, drawing terrified stares from the other children.  
_

 _Satisfied that he had humiliated McGill and re-asserted himself in front of the twerps, Adam released his victim and took a seat on the back bench across the aisle from where McGill had been seating. Usually, Larson had this bench all to himself while Adam and McGill sat next to each other._

 _Staggering back to his feet, McGill flashed another glare at Adam, who pointedly stared straight ahead. McGill fumed as he took his seat on the bench across the aisle from Adam._

 _The two did not exchange a single word or look during the journey to Larson's stop._

 _Once the defenseman was onboard, he looked at his two best friends, who were uncharacteristically seated apart from each other. As his probing gaze fell to McGill, the forward spoke up._

" _Sitting with a traitor makes you one too."_

 _At once, Larson understood that Adam had decided to play as a Duck. He took his seat next to McGill, leaving Adam alone._

 _Once the bus got moving again, Adam looked over at the boys who had meant nearly everything to him for as long as he could remember. Larson gave him an impish smile, but did not breathe a word. It appeared that Larson had been caught in the middle – not sharing McGill's visceral reaction, but disappointed in Adam's decision._

 _Adam struggled to make sense of Larson's reaction for the rest of the journey.  
_

 _Eventually, they arrived at St. Alban's Elementary. During a brief moment in the hall when Larson was able to separate from McGill, the defenseman approached Adam._

" _Hey, Adam."_

 _The center looked up._

" _I don't have much time right now, so I gotta make this quick. I just want you to know that you're still my friend," Larson assured him. "I'll see you at your game…go Ducks!"_

 _Adam's eyes widened in surprise. It turned out that he had a friend after all. He wanted to hug the defenseman, but as soon as Adam came to his senses, Larson vanished._

 _His eyes raced around the hall, searching in vain for Paul Larson.  
_

 _He sighed, uncertain if the exchange had really happened, then made the lonely walk to his classroom._ _  
_

Adam was brought back to earth by the sound of his boisterous new teammates from the other side of the locker room door. Having cleared-up the unfortunate misunderstanding over Gordon's sarcastic comments to Jack Reilly, the Ducks were eager to hit the ice and get back into contention after the brief mutiny that had forced Gordon to forfeit to the Flames.

On the other side of the door, the Ducks hummed with excitement as they finished dressing. Jesse looked over at the green-and-gold jersey, Banks 99, hanging in the center of the locker room. As Number 9 had already belonged to Jesse, Adam was forced to abandon the number of his hero, Mike Modano. But Gordon generously gave Adam the number of an even bigger hockey star: The Great One himself.

Jesse rolled his eyes at the sight of the jersey.

 _Of course that punk thinks he's Gretzky._

None of the Ducks had been excited about the prospect of Adam joining the team, but none of them were more disgusted than Jesse. The Hawk center seemed like an impossibly arrogant and mean bully; Jesse remembered Adam's aggressive playing style, and the totally unnecessary check that he had given Charlie after the latter had already lost the puck. He remembered the confrontation in the alley. And he heard all the stories about Hawk bullying that took place off the ice, where Adam always seemed to play a leading role.

Adam opened the door and the conversations ceased as all eyes settled on the new arrival with a Hawk bag slung over his shoulder, and a spiffy Hendrix hockey stick in hand. The boy's preppy clothes and patrician haircut were also emblematic of how different he was from his new teammates.

Taking in the tense silence, Averman cursed his lack of a pin to drop.

Long, awkward seconds slowly ticked by when the door opened again.

Gordon breezily walked in, and gave Adam a friendly clap on the back.

" **Hey – wasn't sure if you'd show up."**

" **Yeah, whatever. I just want to play hockey."**

Truer words may never have been said. Adam was weary from the previous day's drama, and needed the speed and intensity of hockey to feel alive again.

" **Good,"** Gordon wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders, walking him forward. **"Ducks, you all know Adam Banks."**

With the team having only just gotten over the controversy over Gordon's comments to Reilly, Charlie was in no mood for another distracting episode – especially with a playoff berth on the line. He began to move toward Adam with an outstretched hand.

" **On behalf of the Ducks, I'd like to say welcome…"**

Jesse shot up from his stool and threw an arm bar across Charlie.

" **Cake Eater,"** he sneered.

" **Oh, the Jess-Man…dissin' the new guy…the Jess-ter…"**

" **Shut up, Averman!"** Jesse snapped.

" **It's just a joke,"** Averman shrugged.

Jesse got right up in Adam's face.

" **Puttin' on a Ducks jersey doesn't mean you're a real Duck."**

The feisty forward brushed Adam with his shoulder before storming out of the locker room.

One by one, each of the Ducks followed Jesse out the locker room without breathing a word of welcome to Adam. Some even flashed nasty glances.

But Adam had finally had enough. He refused to be brow-beaten over his wish to play hockey. He defiantly followed each and every one of his teammates out of the locker room with his eyes. The fatigue, dejection, and hopelessness that he had been feeling had all evaporated, as a new fire began to burn inside of him.

" **They're a good group, once you get to know them,"** Gordon assured his new center.

" **I bet."**

" **Well, suit up. See you on the ice!"**

Bombay turned and left, leaving Adam alone in the locker room.

He approached his jersey and set his bag down. As he began to get out of his street clothes, the sneering face of Jesse Hall returned to Adam in his mind.

 _Annoying little twerp. I'll show him._

* * *

As Adam left the locker room and made his way to the Duck bench, his eyes were drawn out of habit to the back row of the bleachers. His father always had a camcorder mounted to a tripod, giving Adam ample study material to improve his game even when he was off the ice. But neither his father nor his brothers were there to man the camera – and there was no camera to man.

Instead, Paul Larson sat high up, alone in the corner. The defenseman gave his old friend a mock salute as their eyes met, causing Adam to smile and return the gesture. Larson had kept his promise. Adam still had a friend. The center hoped that they would have an opportunity to talk after the game, though he knew that it would be risky for Larson to be seen chatting with 'the enemy.'

Fortified by Larson's presence in the stands, Adam joined his new teammates and their assistant coach, Lewis the driver, on the Duck bench as they waited for Gordon to begin his pre-game speech. As the Ducks pointedly moved away from Adam, he could not wait to get these last few games out of the way and go back to being a Hawk. With all of their bulky hockey gear, it was quite normal for players to be in physical contact with each other as they huddled around. But Adam found that he had plenty of room – enough even to stretch, should he have chosen to.

Their shunning was like oxygen to fire. Adam was determined to send every last twerp into the boards and run-up the score on whoever it was they were playing. He probably should have been paying attention to Gordon's speech, but the fire was burning too intensely for rational thought. And like the fires of the Ancients, it demanded sacrifices. Bodies.

 _The other team will have to do, whoever they are._

Adam briefly looked to the other bench to discover that his opponents were in fact the Cubs.

Gordon eventually concluded his speech and ordered the new Duck first line onto the ice. Once they were a reasonable distance from the bench, Jesse urged his teammates to "keep it away from the Cake Eater."

Among Adam's many sins, according to Jesse, was the fact that he had broken up the Oreo Line. Instead of Jesse, Guy, and Terry, the first line forwards now consisted of Jesse, Guy, and Adam. The former Hawk's presence had forced Jesse's brother to be demoted to the second line.

It was clear to Adam that the Cubs were not the only team that he would have to battle for the puck. If eyes could beam venom, Jesse might well have succumbed to lethal poisoning as Adam glared at him.

But Jesse was not intimidated. He returned the glare with a smirk.

The game got underway, and Jesse's linemates did as instructed. Adam had given his blue-and-red Cubs opposite fits in trying to cover him, and frequently found himself wide open. Gordon implored his players from the bench to pass it to Adam, but the Duck first line continued to play like they only had four skaters on the ice.

At first, they were able to get away with this, as Guy scored a goal and gave the Ducks an early lead.

But the Cubs tied and eventually took a 2-1 lead, all the while Adam fought nine players for the puck. He never kept possession for long, but he managed to throw many satisfying elbows into unguarded Cub bellies. When Adam was not in the penalty box, he was in exile on the ice.

After several uneventful line changes, the Duck first line returned to the ice at the beginning of the third period.

Now in the final period, Adam had become so annoyed with Jesse's tactics that he stuck out a leg and tripped his tormentor. Jesse went flying into the boards as he lost control of the puck.

The refs looked on dumbfounded. Had it been a Cub who pulled that stunt, they would have called a penalty. But this was 'friendly fire' as it were. They decided that it was an accident, and swallowed their whistles accordingly.

But Adam did not want to leave _any doubt_ over his intentions.

"How'd that one feel, you twerp?!"

Jesse shot up, ready to take a swing at the 'Cake Eater,' but Bombay interjected from the bench.

"HALL, BANKS! GET IN THE GAME!"

The rival forwards acknowledged their coach, and pursued the puck without any further delay.

After two more uneventful line changes, the first line returned with the third period winding down, still trailing the Cubs by a goal.

Yet again, Adam found himself wide open and in prime position for a shot on goal; but the Ducks kept slapping the puck around him.

" **I'm open – come on! Do something with it!"** He pleaded.

It was almost as if his teammates _wanted_ to lose the game just to spite him.

" **PASS IT TO BANKS!"** Bombay hollered out from the bench.

Guy sailed the puck forward to Adam. The blond forward disliked his new teammate, but figured that a grudge was not worth blowing a chance at the playoffs.

Adam fired a shot that went straight in, tying the game up at 2-apiece.

As their other three linemates gave Adam a congratulatory group hug, Jesse pointedly stayed away. Adam saw this snub out of the corner of his eye.

 _Annoying little twerp.  
_

With just seconds remaining in regulation, Gordon called a timeout. He pulled Goldberg out of the net and ordered Fulton onto the ice as an extra skater. It was a gamble, but a tie would do his team no good at this point. They could only get into the playoffs with a win.

The gamble paid off, and with Fulton's powerful slap-shot blazing a hole through the net, the Ducks had made the playoffs.

Amid all the congratulatory hugs, Adam and Jesse exchanged deadly looks.

* * *

Casey Conway had invited the Ducks to Mickey's to celebrate their playoff berth. The invitation extended to all Ducks, including Adam. But he did not feel comfortable joining his new team in the celebrations, despite the essential role that he had played in securing their victory. Given the frosty reception he had received before the game, his reticence was understandable; but it fed the prejudices of his teammates that he was still an aloof Hawk at heart, despite his new colors.

After the Ducks had cleared out and began making their way to Mickey's, Adam was the last one out of the locker room.

Upon exiting, he saw Larson leaning against the wall opposite the locker room door. The defenseman looked up once he heard the door close.

"Hey, Adam," Larson offered his old friend a toothy grin. "Nice game!"

"Thanks!" Adam beamed, grateful for the rare support and appreciation.

"Can I carry your bag?"

"Heh, no thanks. I got it. Why?"

Larson gave a slight shrug as the pair began walking.

"I figured it wouldn't be good for you if you were seen carrying a Hawks bag," the defenseman explained. "You know, your new teammates wouldn't like it."

"Screw them."

Larson stopped dead in his tracks. It took a great deal to shock the gritty Hawk, but Adam cussing did the trick.

"Um, I don't know where you need to be," Adam spoke-up. "But my dad's waiting for me in the parking lot."

Larson nodded.

"I'll walk you there."

"Thanks," Adam smiled again as they resumed their walk.

"By the way, nice move against that dumb loudmouth."

Adam chuckled at the image of Jesse Hall careening head-first into the boards.

"I thought you'd appreciate that. But that really was more for me. Hall kept the puck away from me the entire game, and we nearly lost because of it."

"Annoying little twerp," Larson scoffed.

"That's exactly what I thought!"

"Well, you remember how we handle twerps, don't you?"

Adam eagerly nodded.

"We show them who's boss."

"That's right," Larson agreed. "Go after that twerp next practice. Hard. Make him hurt."

A large part of Adam wanted to inflict as much pain on Jesse Hall as he possibly could – just short of killing him. But another part of Adam recognized how counter-productive such a move would be. He hated Jesse, but Jesse was still a teammate. And an injured Jesse would hurt the team going forward.

"I may have to find another way," Adam suggested. "I don't want to hurt our chances in the playoffs."

"Hmm," Larson pushed open the door to the parking lot, holding it for his friend. "I can almost see where Jake's coming from. You're not really one of _them_ are you?"

Adam flashed a horrified look as they stepped outside.

"No! God, no!"

"I didn't think so," Larson offered as they reached the parking lot under clear skies. "So take out the twerp, and prove that you're still a Hawk on the inside."

Adam nodded.

"I will."

"Good."

As they approached Philip's Lexus, Larson put a hand on Adam's shoulder, prompting the center to stop.

"I'll continue talking sense into Jake," the defenseman offered. "With any luck, he'll actually start to listen. He'll come around eventually, don't worry. Just remember what side you're _really_ on."

"I won't," Adam replied, lifting the popped trunk door to put away his gear.

Once his equipment was stored, he shut the trunk and turned to his old friend.

"Thanks so much, Paul – for standing by me."

He wrapped Larson in an appreciative hug. The embrace surprised the defenseman, but he returned it.

"It's nothing, Adam. Us against the world?"

"Us against the world!"

The two separated, and Adam quickly got into the backseat, not wanting to keep his father waiting. As the Lexus moved out of Larson's sight, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. He had set Adam on a course that would make him so hated among the Ducks that he would almost certainly end up quitting the team.

Regardless of how things would actually play out, a playoff rival was about to get badly-damaged. Either Jesse Hall would get knocked out, or Adam would quit. Or best case scenario, both.

Larson permitted himself a sly smile.

* * *

At the next practice, Adam did his best to send a message to Jesse. Repeatedly. The center slammed and tripped his rival at every opportunity, innocently claiming that their "legs were tangled" when Gordon demanded to know what was going on. But as Jesse retaliated with fierce body checks of his own, it was plain to Adam that his enemy had not gotten the message, and more to the point, Jesse was far too healthy for his own good.

"Aaaagh!" Jesse screamed in agony.

Adam had ferociously driven him into the boards, throwing a hard elbow into Jesse's back for good measure.

As he slid down the boards, Jesse's teammates flew in, moving to shield him from Adam. But Jesse's best friend on the team was not content to remain a shield.

"Hawk jerk!" Guy growled, grabbing Adam with both hands before throwing him down onto the ice.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Gordon charged in with Lewis slowly waddling behind him. "Break it up," he ordered, getting between Adam and the Ducks.

The tension was palpable as the Ducks glared at Adam, while Terry helped his brother to his feet.

"What the hell's going on?" Gordon demanded, looking directly at Adam as the center stood back up.

The ex-Hawk shrugged, feigning innocence.

"Just hockey, Coach. It's a physical game."

"There's a difference between 'physical,' and 'dirty,' Adam," Gordon explained. "I know Coach Reilly thinks they're the same thing, but they're not."

Adam looked over at Jesse, the tear stains on Jesse's cheeks giving Adam a wicked sense of satisfaction.

 _Little twerp got what he deserved._

Evil eyes continued to bombard the former Hawk, but he was long past the point of caring. The boundaries would get re-drawn next season, and he would be back on the Hawks where he belonged. In the meantime, if a bunch of ungrateful "twerps in green" did not want Adam's help winning, then that was no skin off his nose.

Gordon blew his whistle.

"Alright, we're done here," he declared. "Go on, get dressed."

As the Ducks began moving toward the tunnel, Gordon put a hand on Adam's shoulder.

"Hold up, Adam. Probably best to stay back."

The center nodded.

"Adam, look at me."

The boy looked directly into his coach's worried eyes.

"What is it you're not telling me? You went after Jesse way harder than anyone else. Was it that 'Cake Eater' thing?"

Adam gave a nonchalant shrug. He was not used to telling adults what bothered him. They had never been helpful before, and he doubted that they would start now.

"I'm just doing what I can to get the team ready," he answered. "The Hawks are very physical. You think they'll go easy on your players just because you're soft?"

"I don't expect Reilly to go easy on anyone, and I am _not_ soft," Gordon shot back. "Anyone can say 'winning is everything.' It's much tougher to see what's _really_ important and go after it. _That_ is toughness."

Adam raised an eyebrow.

"Toughness is keeping your head up and doing your best, when everyone else says you're lousy," Gordon continued. "Toughness is playing fairly, when the other guys play dirty. Softness is taking short cuts, cheating; trying to injure your opponent, or your teammate."

Adam let out a loud, exaggerated yawn.

Gordon sighed. De-programming one of Jack Reilly's boys was a difficult task. It had taken Gordon twenty years to get his own head on straight. He hoped for Adam's own sake, as well as the team's, that it would not take that long for the newest Duck.

"Can I go in now, Coach?"

"Give it a few more minutes," Gordon replied. "I think it's best to let your teammates clear out before you go in."

The center nodded.

Gordon was desperate to avoid a brawl in the locker room. He hoped that the upcoming North Stars game would provide an opportunity to defuse the latest tension among his players.


	11. No Man's Land

**Chapter Eleven: No Man's Land**

Adam could see his breath in the early February air as he made the walk to his bus stop early on a Tuesday morning. The Pee Wee post-season was fast-approaching, and sunlight had started creeping into the bleak winter mornings, making the walk to the bus stop less grim than it had previously been. This had always been Adam's favorite time of year: playoff hockey in the Pee-Wee's, and the wildcard race in the NHL.

The two seemed more closely-linked than they had in previous years. Having been a Hawk, he was used to being the heavy favorite, with the playoffs being somewhat of a formality on the road to the Championship. But this year, his team barely scraped in as a wildcard. Although he cared little for his fellow Ducks, he found the unfamiliar position of being the scrappy underdog to be exhilarating.

And Adam knew from watching the pro's that a scrappy underdog who got hot at the right time could run the tables over more-talented teams with better records.

But as Jake McGill and the small crowd of kids at the bus stop came into view, Adam felt a pang of sadness over what he had lost. He had been through everything with Jake. Whenever his father or Reilly made Adam feel like he was playing below his potential, Jake McGill would never stop talking about how awesome Adam – or 'Mo' –was. And whenever Jake's parents forgot that their son even existed, Adam relished the chance to make Jake feel wanted.

As the middle child between an an indomitable athlete on one end, and a grade-skipping prodigy on the other, Adam walked in the shadow of an inferiority complex.

But when the Golden Trio got together and pounded 'little twerps' into submission, he felt like a king. And it tore him apart that something as trivial as playing for the Ducks could ruin such a great friendship. Even in his rare, generous moods toward his new teammates, Adam never expected or wanted the change to be permanent. He always planned on returning to the Hawks the following year once the new boundaries had taken shape.

Arriving at the stop, he stood several paces away from McGill. The taller boy immediately noticed his ex-friend, but quickly turned his back.

McGill could not understand why Adam could not simply sit the last few games out. The season had almost been over when Gordon Bombay had arrived at the Hawk bench with the League representative in toe. Now Adam Banks – McGill's 'Mo' – would have to compete with Larson and McGill. It had always been the Golden Trio against the world. McGill had nothing else – and Adam had gone and thrown it all away.

"Hey, loser!"

Adam snapped out of his brooding when a 9-year old boy, whose name he never bothered to learn, jeered at him. The center ignored the 'greeting.'

"What a wimp," a 10-year old girl chimed-in.

Adam noticed that all of these 'twerps' had been nameless to him before. And timid. Now, they were boldly mocking a much bigger kid who could make them tremble with nothing more than a glare just weeks earlier.

"Yeah, let's call him Wimp-Face!" A second boy proposed.

Adam's fists clenched in anger as his jaw locked, and his blue eyes shot daggers.

"His name's not 'Wimp-Face'," McGill protested.

Adam's eyes widened. Was Jake McGill about to come to his defense? Was the Golden Trio on its way back?

"It's Banksie," McGill continued. "Banks plus _pussy."_

All the other kids laughed.

"What do you think, _Banksie?"_ McGill sneered. "It works, doesn't it?"

Adam closed the distance with his former friend, and grabbed him by the lapel of his Hawk jacket with both hands.

McGill had only seen Adam really lose his temper once – when he tortured Michael on the Banks Family driveway the year before. Despite being stronger than Adam, McGill froze as the ex-Hawk got hold of him.

"Ooof!"

He collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony after Adam's knee rammed into his groin with the force of a thirty-eight special.

The smaller kids – who had been laughing – turned deadly silent as they watched the biggest, baddest kid at the stop get taken down. Adam, still with fire in his eyes, trained his determined scowl onto the group.

"Anybody else want some?"

There were timid murmurs of 'no,' and lots of shaken heads in reply.

 _Good. Little twerps know their place again._

The group's attention turned to the roar of the approaching school bus.

"Behind me, Twerps!" Adam commanded the group, who duly formed a line behind him without protest. He turned to his former friend. "You too, Jakey."

McGill glared at Adam, but complied. The bus was too close for them to fight. It was always a delicate balance: throwing the fists around just enough to send a message, while taking care not to overdo it and get into trouble. McGill got behind Adam, but refused to degrade himself by standing behind a bunch of twerps.

The two former friends were first on the bus and took their seats across from each other in the back row. As McGill brooded over his humiliation at the bus stop, Adam wondered how his old friend's face would feel under his knuckles.

The former Hawk grinned, prompting McGill to look away.

Once they had arrived at the next stop, Larson climbed aboard and approached the back row. He greeted McGill, then took a seat next to him while ignoring Adam. This had been the norm ever since Adam decided to join the Ducks. Larson had assured Adam in private that they were still friends, and that he "talking sense" into McGill on Adam's behalf.

But after the episode with McGill at their stop, Adam was sick of Larson treating him like a closet friend. If the defenseman could not be public with his loyalty, then what good was it?

"Hey, Paul," Adam called out.

Larson looked straight ahead without saying a word.

"Paul," Adam repeated.

No response.

"Paul?"

McGill lightly elbowed Larson.

"Banksie wants to talk to you."

"Banksie?"

"Yeah, Banks plus pussy, get it?"

Larson laughed.

"Nice one, Jake."

Adam bit on his lip. He really had believed that Larson was still a friend, and that the defenseman could be a bridge back to McGill. The former Hawk quickly turned to face the window as he felt his eyes moisten.

 _Do_ not _let them see you cry._

With his hopes of restoring the Golden Trio dashed, Adam was truly on his own, on a team full of enemies and with no friendly team awaiting his return.

* * *

 _In conclusion, President Lincoln's address at Gettysburg was not a celebration of the North's victory against the South at the battle. It was a tribute to the brave men on both sides who lost their lives fighting for their homes. And most importantly, the President reminded the nation that the 'bonds of affection' between North and South would survive the war._

Adam set his pen down and wiggled his writing hand after finishing his Civil War essay. While the bonds between North and South may have withstood the strain of the bloodiest conflict in US history, the 11-year old no longer believed that the bonds between him and his best friends could survive his departure from the Hawks. With Larson's alignment with McGill earlier that morning on the bus, it seemed to Adam that the chasm between him and his friends was far greater than the one that Abraham Lincoln successfully bridged.

As he looked over his homework, he noticed a blot on the otherwise perfect penmanship.

 _Stupid cursive writing._

He reached into a drawer in his bedroom desk to retrieve fresh sheets of loose-leaf paper so he could write the whole thing over again. With Larson and McGill out of the picture, Adam had been studying solo as of late, and he saw no point in using the more spacious facilities of the family library. Besides, the massive desk that the Golden Trio had shared to the soft sounds of classical music only served to remind Adam of what he had lost. From this point on, he was to do his homework in his bedroom.

He grunted in frustration as the ringing of his desk phone disturbed his writing motion, resulting in a blot on his heading. He set his pen down and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Adam. It's Paul."

Adam grunted again.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't speak up for you on the bus," the defenseman offered. "But you know that I have to stay close to Jake. Otherwise I can't argue for you."

Adam rolled his eyes. He had seen that excuse coming from a mile away.

"Uh-huh."

"Still, it wasn't a nice thing for me to do," Larson conceded. "Which is why I want to make it up to you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Larson confirmed. "This Thursday after practice, why don't you hit up the video arcade with me? My treat!"

"You know my dad won't let me anywhere near the arcade during the school year," Adam replied. "I'm surprised _yours_ would."

"That's why God in his infinite wisdom put a library right next to the mall," Larson explained. "Just tell your old man that you need to do some research at the library, then make the walk to the mall."

There was a slight pause as Adam mulled over his response. He loved a trip to the arcade as much as any 11-year old boy, but he was still sore over Larson's apparent betrayal on the school bus. After several seconds, the center spoke up.

"I don't really feel like it, Paul."

"Fine," Larson huffed, surprising Adam with his sharpness. "I try to do something nice for you – not to mention stick my neck out by appearing in public with you – but you'd rather sit around and feel sorry for yourself."

Adam sighed.

"Or better yet," Larson continued. "Hang out with your little ducky friends. They just _love_ you, don't they?"

Adam sighed again. The Ducks hated him even more after he had tried to injure Jesse at the last practice. True, Larson had laughed at the 'Banksie' tag, but he appeared to be the only kid in Adam's life that was willing to offer any sort of friendship, however imperfect.

"I'm sorry, Paul," Adam offered. "It's really nice of you to invite me out. Of course I'll be happy to meet-up with you."

"That's better," Larson replied. "Hey, speaking of the Little Duckies, you're gonna quit those losers, right?"

"No way! They don't like me, and I don't like them, but I don't care about any of that. I just want to play hockey."

"You _do_ know that Jake won't hang out with you again until you quit, right?"

"Whatever."

The center had reached the point where he no longer cared about friendship with Jake McGill. From Adam's perspective, McGill had completely overreacted, and if 'Jakey' was willing to be so spiteful about something so minor, then perhaps he had never been much of a friend to begin with.

"Heh, well I admire your perseverance," Larson offered. "Anyway, I gotta go. See ya Thursday!"

"Yep, see ya Thursday," Adam replied. "And thanks, Paul."

"No problem, bye!"

Larson replaced the phone on its cradle. Seated at his bedroom desk, he pondered his next move.

It seemed that no matter how much the Ducks hated Adam, it was not enough to get his old friend to quit the team. If making the Ducks hate Adam did not work, Larson decided that he would have to make Adam hate the Ducks.

 _Plan B it is, then_.

Larson sighed as he picked the phone back up, this time to dial Big Harry Sheridan's number.

 _It's for Adam's own good._

* * *

After being dropped off by his mother at the library, Adam made his way to the mall on Thursday afternoon to meet-up with Larson at the arcade. Despite what the center had told his old friend, the fact that he had no friends on his new team was actually a big deal. Around the Ducks, Adam had the unfortunate combination of being hated, but not feared. The alienation took an emotional toll on him, and he desperately hoped that he still had a real friend in the form of Paul Larson.

He covered a lot of ground quickly, and entered the mall through the entrance closest to the library – his usual entrance in any event. He usually went to the mall with a parent, and it did not matter if the shops that they needed to visit were on the exact opposite side of the building. To be a Banks was to be a creature of habit, and all five of them were highly regular in the small particulars of their lives.

 _Heh, good ol' predictable Adam,_ Larson thought as he observed him enter from the second-story railing.

Being so far off the beaten path, this entrance was deserted as per usual. That suited Larson's purposes just fine.

As Adam made his way across the gray granite floor, Harry Sheridan emerged from the shadows.

"Yo, Banksie!"

Adam followed the sound of the voice to discover the burly 7th grader walking toward him. Apparently McGill's hateful tag had made the rounds.

"What do you want?" Adam demanded.

"The Ducks say 'Hello _',"_ Sheridan explained, closing the gap.

"Huh?"

Sheridan grabbed Adam by the collar with one hand and drew back a clenched fist with his other. But the bigger kid only hit air as Adam eluded the fist with a swim move. Sheridan still had a tight grip on his prey, but it loosened when Adam threw an elbow into the bully's gut. Adam then forced Sheridan to completely release his grip when he stomped on his foot.

"Heh, I knew you'd fight like a girl," Sheridan taunted Adam once the younger boy achieved separation.

"Come a little closer and I'll fight like a prison guard," Adam shot back, itching to unleash the pressure-point attack on his assailant.

"Be careful what you wish for."

Sheridan lowered his head and charged like a raging bull. Adam sidestepped the older boy, allowing him to crash into the wall.

"Oooof!"

Sheridan was dazed and on the floor when Adam jumped on top of him, driving his knees into his back and pinning the larger boy down with all of his weight.

"Now for the fun to begin," Adam grinned malevolently, his icy fingers probing for the sensitive spot between Sheridan's neck and shoulder.

Sheridan's eyes widened in horror. He knew exactly where this was going.

"Please…no!" The older boy croaked, finding it difficult to breathe with Adam's weight on top of him.

But the plea fell on deaf ears.

"Aaagh!"

"Hmm. Paul tells me this part is even _more_ sensitive," Adam attacked Sheridan's shoulder cleft.

Sheridan began flailing and thrashing. Now that the prey had become the predator, the older boy tried his best to throw Adam off of him.

"But not _quite_ as sensitive as this…"

Sheridan managed to throw Adam off before he could continue the torture. As Adam tumbled to the ground, Sheridan recovered his breath. He shot the smaller boy a murderous look. At this point, Sheridan did not even care if he broke Adam's arm. In fact, he _wanted_ to do exactly that.

Jesse Hall laughed as he made his way through the obscure entrance with Terry and Fulton. Guy had been spending a lot more time with Connie, so Fulton filled the void. The three boys were beginning to form a solid bond of friendship.

"Parents are so dumb," Jesse declared. "Just tell 'em you wanna go to the library, and you can goof around in the mall all day."

Once the three Ducks had entered, their eyes and ears were immediately drawn to the scrum between Adam and a much larger boy.

"Come on," Fulton urged. "We gotta help him."

Jesse grinned at the sight of the old Hawk bully getting what he thought was coming to him.

"Let's get some popcorn and soda instead," he suggested.

"He's our teammate," Fulton countered. "We gotta help him out."

Jesse sighed.

"Fine. Do what you gotta do. Just don't drag me or Terry into it."

Fulton could see that the larger boy had gotten the upper-hand on Adam and was whaling away at the newest Duck. He could not argue with Jesse, or Adam would end up getting _really_ hurt, so the massive defenseman charged into the scrum alone.

"How do ya like it, Banksie?" Sheridan taunted Adam between punches. "Got nothin' to say? Well, how….acckk-aaack."

The big bully choked as Fulton grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off of Adam.

Fulton dropped Sheridan to the ground with a flick of the wrist and stood menacingly over Adam's tormentor.

Sheridan looked up at the Duck defenseman.

 _I'm not getting paid nearly enough for this_.

On the floor above, Larson watched with disgust as Sheridan staggered back to his feet and fled.

"You okay, Banks?" Fulton asked, extending a hand to help the center up.

But Adam slapped it away.

"Nice stunt," he huffed, getting to his feet. "Get some goon to beat me up, then march in and save the day. That was supposed to make me like you guys, right?"

Fulton and the Hall Brothers exchanged bewildered looks.

"Are you saying that _we_ sent that guy after you, Cake Eater?"

Adam rolled his eyes upon hearing Jesse's dopey nickname for him.

"Are _you_ saying that you didn't?"

"No," they chorused back.

"Actually," Terry began, "I was just thinking that maybe that guy up there had something to do with it." He pointed up at Larson.

Adam looked where Terry indicated, but could only see some figure in black move away from it quickly.

 _Paul?_

The center was uncertain.

"Nice hair, by the way," Jesse grinned, noting Adam's disheveled appearance.

"Heh, thanks," the center responded sarcastically, trying to fix his hair with his hand.

"So you wanna hang out with us?" Fulton asked.

"Actually, I'm supposed to be meeting with someone," Adam replied.

"A fellow Hawk, I bet," Jesse suggested.

Adam scoffed.

"Like it's any of your business who I hang out with."

"I'm just going on what I see, Cake Eater."

Adam followed Jesse's eyes to observe Paul Larson approach.

"Adam, there you are!" Larson called out. "You were running late, that's not like you! So I was getting a little worried."

The center's eyes widened. There was a strong possibility that the figure in black watching the scrum had been Paul Larson. It made sense. After all, Paul did not have much ground to cover after the figure had been discovered.

How could Paul just stand there while Adam got attacked? Worse still, Adam considered the possibility that Paul was the one who set Sheridan on him. Was that little bit about the Ducks 'saying hello' true, or some trick pulled by Larson?

"Come on, Adam," Larson grasped Adam lightly by the arm. "Let's hit up the arcade."

But Adam recoiled from Larson's touch, and began to stomp toward the exit.

"I'm going home."

Larson's eyes widened.

"But Adam…I thought you wanted to hang out. We're friends!"

"I have no friends."

* * *

The Ducks' practice the following day ended early. It was the last practice before the playoffs were to begin over the weekend, and Adam was eager to stay on the ice. Having gotten into the playoffs by just the skin of their teeth, Adam did not see how the Ducks could afford to be be taking any shortcuts. But the ex-Hawk changed his mind when he discovered the reason why Gordon decided to let his players out early.

Wide-eyes, 'ooohs,' and 'aaahs' went up as the Ducks took in the sight of the Minnesota North Stars practicing. The Pee-Wee team was in awe of the massive NHL arena, which was so much bigger than the public one that they played in. The size and speed of the professional athletes were unreal to kids, and so was the force with which they moved the puck. And of course, there was the star factor.

Adam felt his heart race as he saw Number 9, Mike Modano, fly around the net and hook a goal.

 _Was he even looking at where he shot?_

The best players always had a way of making what they do look easy. But Adam shook his head, realizing that the best always worked incredibly hard behind the scenes.

After a few minutes, the coach's whistle blew and the North Stars began to make their way off the ice, approaching the tunnel where the dazzled Ducks stood in awe.

The fully-grown men, nearly all of whom were over six-feet tall, looked gigantic with the added height of their skates. The kids felt like they were living in a hockey fairy tale as their local heroes gave friendly smiles and nods on their way to the locker room. Adam gasped slightly as he saw who the last ones off the ice were.

 _They always save the best for last._

" **This is Basil McRae and Mike Modano,"** Gordon introduced the men to his players.

Giggles, 'no duhs,' and 'no kiddings' shot up from the group as they took in the sight of the two North Stars who least needed introductions.

Adam could see that McRae's and Modano's lips were moving at different points in the conversation, but he was so starstruck that he could not actually make out what they were saying.

 _Did McRae say he was in Pee-Wee's with Bombay, or was that Modano?_

The two pro's continued talking to Gordon. Something about minor league hockey, Adam surmised. If the previous day had been one of the worst of his life, this was easily one of the best.

After exchanging goodbyes with his pro hockey buddies, Gordon turned to his Ducks.

" **Alright, let's have some fun!"**

Most of the kids stormed onto the ice without any hesitation, but Adam was still in a bit of daze.

Modano caught him out of the corner of his eye.

"Hey."

Adam thought he would jump out of his skin when he felt his hero's hand land on his shoulder. He looked up and met the friendly gaze of the _R_ _eal_ Mo.

"Study hard and stay off the drugs," Modano advised the boy.

Adam was unable to find his voice, but eagerly nodded in agreement.

"And go have fun with your teammates," the North Star center added with an affable clap to the boy's shoulder before heading into the locker room.

 _Okay, this really_ is _the best day of my life!_

Privately vowing to never wash his shoulder again, Adam stepped onto the ice and joined the Ducks in frolicking around on the North Star's home ice. He felt a tinge of regret that he did not have his stick, but he imagined himself in the NHL anyway. He imagined the empty bleachers filled to capacity with rowdy fans cheering him on as he led his team to the Stanley Cup.

In that life, he did not need to intimidate 'twerps,' or cling to bullies for friendship. All he needed to do was let his game do the talking.

This was what Adam Banks wanted out of life.

He looked over at his new teammates. Some of them did slides as if they were baseball players, Tammy did some fancy figure-skating moves, Connie and Guy skated around hand-in-hand, and Charlie worked on his own skating technique. Peter, Goldberg, and Karp pushed Lewis around on a chair; the good-natured driver actually agreed to let kids tie him to a chair.

 _He must be very trusting,_ Adam thought.

But really, what was the worst that could happen? The Ducks seemed like the last group of kids who would want to mess with a guy tied to a chair. Adam was not used to that sort of company. In the group that he used to run with, a person tied to a chair could expect to find rude drawings on their face, and their hair shaved off.

Eventually, the team had to clear out and make way for the Zamboni. Soon the North Stars would be back on the ice, along with the visiting Hartford Whalers, to do to their pre-game warm-ups. The Ducks settled into the bleachers, with Gordon taking care to have Fulton sit between Jesse and Adam in order to keep the peace.

With the North Stars due to move to Dallas the following season, tickets had practically been given away, and Gordon had no difficulty in getting a special greeting for his team on the scoreboard.

The Ducks looked up at the message **'Welcome Gordon Bombay & the Ducks,'** and cheered wildly. Adam eagerly joined in. He was not really one of them, but he felt that he was definitely not a Hawk anymore; and he seized the opportunity to rebel against his old team by cheering for his new one.

Jesse looked over at Adam, and was surprised by the Cake Eater's enthusiasm.

A few minutes later, Larson and McGill made their way down to their seats closer to the glass. The pair of Hawks looked over at Adam. McGill pantomimed a pistol with an index finger and thumb, then took a 'shot' at Adam, who looked away from the boys who used to be his best friends.

Jesse noticed this as well. He looked at Adam and for the first time felt sympathy for the boy who had been so vicious toward him.

The game eventually got underway, with Minnesota and Hartford duking it out at 3-3 for most of the third period. Then, as he was wont to do, Modano fired a shot that broke the tie and gave the North Stars a 4-3 victory.

The Ducks were in high spirits on the eve of the playoffs. Adam was more than ready to let his game do the talking from now on. He did not need any of that other stuff.

As he left his team to return home, he hoped for the first time that the district lines would not get re-drawn the following year; or if they did, that they would place him on a team other than the Hawks. He even shocked himself by being open to staying with the Ducks, especially if they made a run in the playoffs. For the first time since the boundary issue arose, Adam felt that things were moving in the right direction for him.


	12. Baptism by Force

**Chapter Twelve: Baptism by Force**

The weekend had arrived, and with it, the playoffs. Although Gordon had been happy to reward his players with a trip to see the North Stars, he worried that the abbreviated practice on the eve of the postseason had not afforded Adam the opportunity to really gel with his new linemates. Nonetheless, Gordon kept his line assignments intact. He knew full well that his Ducks stood no chance of victory without an effective Adam Banks, so to give his fellow recovering Hawk plenty of minutes was a no-brainer.

He only hoped that Adam and Jesse had swallowed whatever beef that had been between them.

As Gordon extended his clenched fist toward his players, inviting them to bring it in and begin the quacking, he noticed that the two rival forwards had found themselves standing next to each other. He observed Adam and Jesse's hands brush for just a second, before Jesse recoiled and drew back.

 _Great, just great._

"Quack, quack, quack, quack," Gordon began.

"QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK," his Ducks chorused back.

Adam quacked back with gusto, as if to spite Jesse. The new Duck center may have been a teammate rather than a friend to the others, but if Jesse had taken it upon himself to be Mr. Alpha Duck, Adam was more than happy to rub his new colors in Jesse's face.

 _Stupid Cake Eater._

Deciding that Adam could not possibly get any more obnoxious, Jesse hit the ice along with the rest of the first line to meet the opposing, gold-clad Hornets. Adam met his opposite at center ice for the faceoff while Jesse and Guy got into position on the wings. Averman and Karp were on defense. Unlike the lead-up to their regular season finale, Jesse had not urged his teammates to keep the puck away from Adam. After the former Hawk's game-tying goal the previous week, Jesse knew that his linemates had every intention of including Adam in the game.

But that did not mean that he had to like or trust the Cake Eater. The old D5er recalled Adam's awkward encounter with Larson and McGill at the North Stars game. Adam had looked away on that occasion, seemingly embarrassed by his former teammates. Jesse had even felt a tinge of sympathy for his new teammate at the time. But the more that he thought about it, the more striking he found it that Adam could just turn his back on his old friends. Apparently, loyalty meant little to the preppy center.

Jesse was snapped out of his ruminating by the sound of the ref's whistle as the puck dropped, and the game began.

Adam won the faceoff and drew a double-team as he barreled into the Hornet zone. He passed to a wide-open Guy, who in turn took a shot for an easy goal. 1-0 Ducks. As the first line smothered the blond forward in a congratulatory group hug, Jesse took care to be the last one to join in – that way he could factor in the Cake Eater's position and avoid contact with him.

As the game progressed, it appeared that Adam and Guy had begun to form a strong hockey – if not yet personal – bond. Jesse found this particularly jarring. Guy had been the linchpin of the Oreo Line, and Jesse's best friend; now he was developing a real chemistry with Adam.

Gordon eventually ordered a line change, and as the first line made their way to the Duck bench, Adam barreled-in and cut ahead of Jesse.

The new Duck center wanted to take his seat next to Guy – where Jesse had always sat.

"Hey Guy," Adam began. "These guys don't trap, so when you get the puck and you're close – take a shot. Don't slap it around."

Guy raised a curious eyebrow at his new linemate.

 _Isn't it up to Bombay to do the coaching?_

The blond forward looked up at his head coach, who had been listening in. Gordon nodded with a slight smile.

"He's right, Guy. Don't be afraid to be aggressive."

"Got it, Coach," he nodded.

Adam lightly elbowed Guy, causing the wing to turn and face the center.

"And another thing…" Adam continued to talk strategy with Guy, while a forlorn Jesse looked on.

He was beginning to regret excluding Adam from the last game, because it appeared that Adam was going to get his revenge, bringing Guy into the strategizing while leaving Jesse out in the cold. Jesse's knuckles cracked in a pair of indignant fists. First, a Cake-Eating Hawk bully had waltzed onto the team expecting royal treatment. Then, said Cake Eater attacked him in practice. And finally, the Cake Eater was moving to solidify his position on the team at Jesse's expense, through Jesse's own best friend.

With the feeling that Adam was stealing the Ducks out from under him, Jesse trained his eyes onto the ice, desperate to get his mind onto the game and away from Guy's betrayal and Adam's scheming.

The Duck second line, led by Charlie at center and Fulton on defense, could not impose the same level of domination that the first could. The two second lines exchanged two goals apiece, bringing the score to 3-2, Ducks.

Eventually, the first line returned to the ice; and just as Adam had expected, Guy drew a double team once Adam had possession of the puck.

 _Good._

The former Hawk sailed the puck ahead to an open Jesse. The D5er was shocked for a millisecond, but quickly recovered. Jesse closed-in on the Hornet goal, deked twice, then fired.

4-2, Ducks.

As the first line mobbed Jesse to celebrate his goal, the boy heard an affable, but intense voice rise above the others.

"Good job, Jesse," Adam offered "Now go get another one!"

Jesse could not help but grin at his surprisingly generous enemy. But he soon remembered himself.

"Thanks, Banks," he replied coolly.

Adam gave a slight shrug.

 _Banks, not Cake Eater. I guess I'm moving in the right direction._

Ultimately, Jesse did not 'get another one.' Instead, the Ducks sealed the Hornets' fate with another goal from Adam, making the final score 5-3. But Jesse _did_ get the final assist. As Adam made the walk to his father's Lexus waiting in the parking lot, the former Hawk felt for the first time since joining the Ducks that he was on a team to be reckoned with.

* * *

The combination of Adam, Jesse, and Guy vanquished the Cardinals in a manner similar to their dispatch of the Hornets. Only this time, the final score was 4-2. In the locker room after the game, Gordon happily allowed his giddy players to douse him in soda pop as they celebrated their improbable playoff run. They had gone from a team that had barely made it in on the heroics of two last-minute additions to the roster – Adam and Fulton – and now they found themselves in the Championship Game against the Hawks.

After leaving the arena, Gordon decided to burn off his postgame excitement with a skating trip to the pond by Hans' shop. The young man had sacrificed his legal career to give the kids he coached a chance to experience playoff hockey, and he knew that the buzz that came with his team's success would rob him of a goodnight's sleep unless he worked-up some fatigue on the ice.

As Gordon raced around the pond, he began to wonder why he ever left the ice in the first place. After all, he had discovered how wonderfully therapeutic skating could be. The smell of the clean, brisk air; the sound of metal slicing across the ice; and the rapid, but smooth motions could always be relied on to clear his head whenever he had too much on his mind. And it was a great way to burn off restless energy.

But then, the dreadful memory came crashing – or _pinging –_ back when Gordon unexpectedly put on the brakes. That awful sound of the puck hitting the goalpost during Number 9's Championship-losing penalty shot had haunted Gordon Bombay for twenty years. It had driven him off the ice, and now he worried that his old, hyper-competitive instincts would return once his Ducks inevitably fell short of the perennial Pee Wee champs.

Was Gordon Bombay about to do a Jack Reilly on one – or more – of his kids and banish them from the ice following a defeat?

The former lawyer hoped not. But he always hated to lose, and to lose to Jack Reilly would be especially galling.

He thought back to the first time he saw Adam Banks on the ice. Hawk Number 9. Like Gordon before him, Adam was an exceptional player. As much as Gordon had matured during the past few weeks, he feared that he would continue the old cycle of abuse if and when the Ducks lost to the Hawks. He was, after all, hyper-competitive.

As Gordon began running different game scenarios involving Adam in his head, he realized that he was still far too restless. So he resumed his skating, trying in his mind to balance the needs of his team with his desire to avoid putting undo pressure on Adam.

* * *

The air was tense as the Ducks and Hawks lined-up for the National Anthem ahead of the Championship game. The two teams exchanged glares and probing looks, which was to be expected. But for Paul Larson and Jake McGill, the standard pre-game glowering at the enemy came with additional baggage. Larson was furious with the Ducks for taking Adam away, and he gave each Duck – except Adam – a look of death.

But when the defenseman got to his old friend, his coarse features softened. Adam had known Larson well, and he knew all the little tweaks that the Hawk defenseman was known to make to his mostly-stoic face. The center thought he had sensed pleading in his old friend's eyes, but Adam stared back unmoved. McGill looked at the Ducks with more disgust and less anger than Larson had. McGill felt that the _annoying Little Duckies_ were twerps who were beneath him in every way, and hewas unable to hide the contempt in his silver-blue eyes.

As McGill's gaze fell upon Adam, Number 7's lips twisted into a cruel smirk. After Adam had left the Hawks, McGill became the new first line center. He was to line up directly against Adam, and had been looking forward to making 'the Traitor' suffer.

Behind their players, Reilly and Bombay sized each other up. The impending struggle was not going to be a friendly match between an old teacher of the game and his admiring pupil. Reilly loathed Bombay, viewing his former star as a bratty ingrate who stole Adam Banks out from under him; and the antipathy was entirely mutual. Bombay saw Reilly as the man who had come between him and the ice, and the man whose obsessive competitiveness had forced him to grow up too quickly…and too bitterly.

With the Anthem out of the way, the teams returned to their benches to get fired-up before the game began. The Hawks pounded their sticks against the floor, with Reilly marching up and down the bench chanting **" _WIN, WIN, WIN!"_ **

The Hawk parents – which still included Philip Banks – joined in.

The Ducks responded with boisterous quacking, drawing-in their own green-clad supporters from the crowd that included Mr. Hall and Casey, among others.

As the Ducks broke out of their huddle and the first line prepared to hit the ice, Jesse looked over to Adam. The new Duck center had been a vital part of the team's playoff run, but neither the Cardinals nor the Hornets were Adam's old team, and Jesse could not shake the feeling that his new teammate still harbored some residual loyalty to the boys in black.

" **Hey, Banks…"**

Adam turned to face Jesse.

"… **d** **on't forget what side you're on."**

The center nodded, but did not breathe a word in reply as he slid his mask down. He turned and made his way to center ice as Gordon put a hand on Jesse's shoulder.

" **He's a Duck, Jesse. Now go play like a Duck!"**

Jesse nodded, then followed 'Cake Eater' onto the ice.

Adam lined-up against McGill; if looks could kill, the two former friends would have dropped dead on the spot.

The puck dropped, and McGill launched into Adam, putting the boy formerly known as 'Mo' flat on his back while Larson recovered the puck and skated into the Duck zone.

" **Good hit! That's the way I want you guys to play it!"** Reilly cheered from the bench.

Gordon looked over at his rival across the glass partition. Reilly popped his collar.

Gordon's attention returned to the ice as the Hawks and Ducks fought for possession. Eventually, Adam gained control and barreled into the Hawk zone. As he took cover behind the Hawk goal to survey the ice, Larson and McGill bore down on their former friend in a double team. Adam managed to get rid of the puck, but still absorbed a ferocious double-check along the boards.

Scott Stevens intercepted the puck for the Hawks and passed laterally to Larson. The shifty defenseman bore down on Goldberg, deked, faked, then passed to Jason Brown while the Duck goalie bit on the fake and dove – leaving the net wide open. Brown scored, and the Hawks drew first blood.

The Hawks punished the Ducks for the rest of the first period, but Gordon's Ducks bravely soldiered on and limited the Hawk offense to 3 goals.

The Hawk front line began making their way back out onto the ice after the first intermission when Reilly stopped Larson and McGill at the bench's gate.

" **Alright, hold it, hold it. I want you to drop Banks like a bad habit. I want him out of the game – finish him off. Got it?"**

Larson hesitated, but McGill grinned.

" **Yeah,"** the forward replied.

" **Okay, boys. Let's go, let's go!"** Reilly ushered the pair onto the ice with his arm.

The Hawks won the opening faceoff of the second period, but Zack Stickler lost possession to Adam, who took off on a fast-break with McGill in hot pursuit.

Philip softly cheered his son from his seat among the Hawk parents. He was in the awkward position of rooting for the Hawks while rooting for Adam at the same time, but he still wanted to see his son do well – provided that the rest of the Ducks played badly enough to lose.

As Adam took a shot, McGill shoved him from behind. The momentum of the swing, combined with McGill's push, caused Adam to do a belly-flop onto the ice, where he slid head-first toward the goal along with the puck. The puck sailed in, drawing loud cheers from the Duck fans that obscured the sound of yet another awful _ping._ Only it was not a game-losing puck this time, it was Adam's head that had struck metal.

The crowd continued to roar as the first Duck goal ticked onto the scoreboard. Only Larson seemed to notice that Adam was still lying motionless, face-down on the ice. The Hawk defenseman removed his helmet and skated up to his former friend.

" **Adam, are you okay?"**

No response.

Larson could hear skates approaching from behind. He turned and saw McGill.

" **What'd you do?!"** He demanded.

" **My job,"** McGill answered.

A ref quickly moved to escort McGill to the penalty box for cross-checking while the paramedics made their way to the ice with a gurney.

Larson, still kneeling over Adam, looked over at the penalty box where he saw Reilly give McGill a congratulatory fist-bump. The defenseman's blood boiled at the sight. Even when he had sent Harry Sheridan after Adam, it was with the instruction to "rough him up a little," not to knock him out.

As much pain as Larson figured that Adam was experiencing, he decided that it could not possibly compare to the sheer, unadulterated misery that he intended to inflict on McGill after the game. It was at that moment that Larson realized that he and the rest of the Hawks had lost Adam Banks for good. There would be no re-drawing of the district lines for next year. Events had pushed Adam out, and the cheap shot slammed and locked the door behind him.

As Larson observed the Ducks approach their newest teammate, the defenseman knew that he had to leave his old friend behind; so he got up and skated away. Eventually, Adam came-to as the paramedics finished strapping him to the gurney. He noticed that all of the Ducks had crowded around him, but against all expectations, _Jesse Hall_ was the closest one.

The old D5er no longer harbored any doubts about Adam's loyalty after he witnessed McGill's savage hit – a baptism by force. If Adam had gone into that goalpost half-Duck and half-Hawk, he had emerged from it _all_ Duck in Jesse's eyes.

Seeing Jesse's worried features, Adam weakly spoke-up.

" **Did it go in?"**

Jesse chuckled, amazed at where the injured boy's priorities were.

" **Yeah, man."**

" **Jesse, do me a favor. Kick some Hawk butt."**

Jesse smiled broadly.

" **Alright…** ** _Cake Eater._** **"**

The concussion would wipe Adam's memory of this little exchange, but Jesse never forgot the moment when he came to see Adam Banks as a friend.

As the medics wheeled Adam off the ice, Gordon looked over at the Hawk bench. He knew that at this point, all that he could do for Adam was to give Reilly a piece of his mind…before crushing the hated Hawks to smithereens.

" **They score against us, they're gonna pay the price,"** Reilly told his players. **"Now don't worry, we're gonna get that one back…"** he looked up to see Gordon standing in front of his bench.

" **You got something to say to me, Bombay?"**

" **To think I wasted all those years worrying about what you thought. You're going down, Reilly."**

Play resumed, and Fulton made short work of the Duck power play, sending the Hawk goalie backwards into his own net with a devastating slap-shot.

3-2, Hawks.

Reilly winced as the Duck bench celebrated and Gordon urged his players to " **have more fun out there**."

The old Hawk coach turned to his players.

" **Now ladies, they don't** ** _need_** **our help out there! Now I want that Fulton Reed covered. He better not make another shot, you got it?! I'm tellin' ya, blow this game and** ** _NOBODY_** **makes the team next year. Now get out there!"**

Reilly succeeded in lighting a fire under his boys, and the Hawks re-took the 2-goal lead almost as soon as play resumed.

Eventually, the third period arrived, and the Duncans cut the Hawk lead down to 1 as Tammy's dazzling spin move distracted the Hawk defenders, who left their goal wide open, allowing her to tap-in the puck.

As the blonde female Duck celebrated in her own way – by spinning – Larson figured that he could draw a slashing penalty and force a Hawk power play if he could get close to her. But McGill beat the defenseman to it. Only instead of drawing a slash, McGill shoved the ex-figure skater down to the ice.

 _Idiot_ , Larson thought.

Not that Paul Larson felt even a tinge of sympathy for Tammy Duncan, but he was annoyed with McGill for committing another stupid penalty that would give the man-advantage to the Ducks.

After play stopped, and McGill chugged some water by the bench, Fulton lifted the big Hawk center from behind and dropped him into the bench. The Hawks immediately leapt to McGill's defense, but Fulton would not back down – he was quite willing to fight them all. But the refs had other ideas, and ejected the burly Duck defenseman before things could get out of hand.

As Larson watched the dangerous Duck get escorted off the ice, his frustration with McGill gave way to grudging respect.

 _Maybe the big, dumb idiot knows what he's doing after all._

With Adam out, the Oreo Line was back, and Terry hit the ice with Jesse and Guy. Along with Averman and Karp on defense, the trio formed the Flying V formation, which sent the confused Hawks backpedaling, giving Jesse an easy goal that tied the game up at 4-apiece as the third period continued to wind down.

As the clock ticked down, Charlie broke free with the puck and looked primed to score, only to get tripped-up from behind by Drew Herek. Gordon, who felt that the officiating crew had been appallingly lax, was livid that yet another Hawk penalty was about to go uncalled.

" **Hey, Ref—where's the call?!"**

After a slight hesitation, the officials acquiesced, much to Reilly's chagrin. The Ducks were setup for a game-winning penalty shot. As was the case in all penalty shots, it was up to the head coach to decide who was to take it.

Gordon was privately relieved that Adam was not an option. The poor kid had endured Reilly's nonsense for years, and Gordon did not trust himself to keep Adam away from the same sort of pressure-packed moment that he had found himself in twenty years earlier. The last thing Gordon wanted was for another Number 9 from the Hawks to get scarred for life.

So Adam was out. Fulton had a potentially game-changing – if slightly wild – slap shot, but he too was out. Guy Germaine was clearly the best shooter that remained, and his teammates urged their coach to pick him. But realizing that Charlie had gotten robbed of a golden scoring opportunity, Gordon decided to let him **"f** **inish what he started."**

After advising Charlie to use his triple-deke scoring move, and assuring the boy that he would continue to believe in him win or lose, Gordon got into position on the bench.

At the sound of the whistle, Charlie began to make his way toward the Hawk net. All eyes were on the second line center, who found himself against all expectations in the position to lift his team to victory.

 _One…two...three._

The crowd erupted as the goal siren went off and the Mighty Ducks handed the Hawks their first Championship defeat in twenty years.

A stunned Larson observed the euphoric Ducks from the Hawk bench – which was deadly quiet. The boys in black were in that first stage of grieving: denial.

 _That didn't really just happen, did it? No way!_

McGill looked over to Reilly, hoping that his tough coach would fire their team up, and order them back onto the ice. After all, this experience could _only_ have been a dream – a nightmare, really.

 _Yep. Any minute he'll tell us 'ladies' to hit the ice and ground the Little Duckies into a fine pulp,_ McGill tried to tell himself.

But the old Hawk coach looked just as shell-shocked as his players. His hands were clasped behind the back of his head as he stared at the ground.

That was when it finally occurred to Jake McGill: there was no one to wake any of them from their nightmare.

* * *

Philip Banks stared with bloodshot eyes at his son, who laid unconscious in a hospital bed. He had hardly blinked since the doctors left him alone to keep vigil over Adam, and he had not even noticed that his wife and other sons had gone home. The intense, relentless lawyer who picked up on everything seemed to be miming his injured son – unconscious and adrift.

It was almost as if Philip had ventured into another dimension in order to retrieve his son, as Adam came-to, startling his father back into coherency.

The 11-year old winced in pain from the light, and heard the back of a chair land with a thud on the hard floor.

Philip had shot out of his seat to close the blinds.

Though Adam found relief in the darkness, his relief soon gave way to panic. He was someplace unfamiliar. As he felt his adrenaline spike, Adam noticed the familiar smell that seemed to be a blend of rubber and formaldehyde. That was when he realized that he was in the hospital.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

Adam felt his father grasp his hand in a rather painful way. It was as though Philip feared that his son would slip back into unconsciousness if he let go.

"What happened?"

"You were at the Championship game…only you were playing _against_ the Hawks instead of with them," Philip explained. "Jake McGill slammed you face-first into the goal post as you took a shot."

There was a brief pause as Adam absorbed the explanation.

"Did it go in?"

The boy gasped slightly as he heard the unfamiliar sound of his father's laughter.

"Yes, it went in," Philip chortled. "But you got knocked out, and that's why you're in the hospital now."

"Did we win?"

Philip shrugged.

"I don't know. The game must be over by now, but I have no idea what the final score was. You guys were losing 3-1, despite your goal. So I doubt it."

"Yeah," Adam sighed wistfully.

The Banks men were the strong silent types, and as brief as this exchange had been, it had easily been one of Adam's longest conversations with his father. Neither of them knew what to say next, as neither of them had ever spoken to the other that much. After several moments of silence, Adam let out a sigh of relief as Philip finally released his vise-grip. Now at least somewhat comfortable, Adam spoke again.

"So who came to help me?"

"Well, the paramedics obviously," Philip answered. "But before that, Paul Larson went to you; but he moved out as soon as the Ducks moved in, which was pretty darn quick. Jesse Hall led the way."

Although Jesse could not see it, Adam gave his former rival a grateful smile.

There was another moment or two of silence.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Adam?"

"Don't let me go back to the Hawks next year," he pleaded. "I want to stay a Duck."

Philip gave his son a gentle smile.

"I would never allow anything else."


	13. The Hunter's Epiphany

**Chapter Thirteen: The Hunter's Epiphany**

The dazed Hawks eventually made it into their locker room, following their stunning defeat to the Mighty Ducks. Hardly any words were spoken by the boys in black, and as shocked as the players were, nothing could compare to the stupor that Jack Reilly had found himself in. The old head coach was completely out of it, and attempts by his assistant, Hank Nystrom, to rouse the older man out of his endless playbacks to Charlie Conway's final goal proved futile.

It was Nystrom who ordered the boys into their locker room. Reilly seemed so disturbed by the defeat that he had to be driven home by his assistant coach, and he was in no state to remind Nystrom that he had been planning on driving Jake McGill home.

McGill quietly fumed as he changed out of his uniform. Defeat was an unfamiliar experience for him, and he hated the feeling of helplessness that it evoked. Desperate for a scapegoat, he scanned the locker room. His silver-blue eyes fell upon Drew Herek, the gangly second line center who had tripped-up Charlie Conway and set up the game-losing penalty shot.

"Hey, Herek," he called out.

The tall, blond boy looked over to McGill.

"You suck! Way to blow it for all of us, you worthless loser!"

Herek could tell right away that McGill's words were not playful ribbing. The quiet, but imposing center set his shoulder pads down and marched across the locker room to confront McGill. With Herek out of his jersey and pads, Larson could not help but notice how lean and strong his teammate's porcelain torso looked.

Larson immediately turned back to his locker and began to furiously undress, hoping to change into his street clothes quickly, and to avoid spending any excessive time in the locker room with all those half-naked teammates – and all the shameful thoughts that their presence induced.

Over Larson's shoulder, Herek squared-up against McGill. Like McGill, Drew Herek was big for his age, and for his position. But the platinum-haired center lacked McGill's speed and agility, so he ended up anchoring the second line. If McGill had the advantage in speed, Herek clearly had it in size.

"You wanna say that again, Jake?" Herek asked. "My fist couldn't hear you the first time."

McGill, also bare-chested, looked directly into the pale blue eyes that matched his own shade. An experienced fighter, McGill knew that once "it was on," one had better not lose precious seconds by talking trash.

 _Save that for when the twerp can't get back up._

So instead of giving a verbal reply, McGill hunched over, drove his shoulder into Herek's chest, and put the taller boy on his back. McGill straddled his prey's torso, pinning Herek to the cold concrete floor before landing his fist on Herek's right eye in a series of blows.

"Admit you blew it," McGill demanded, drawing back fist back for yet another punch.

He was momentarily distracted by the weird, snorting sound that Herek made from the floor. Then, McGill was brought back to reality when a massive loogie hit him just below the eye. As the slimy, greenish substance trailed down his cheek, the first line center went berserk.

"You son of a…"

McGill grabbed his prey by the throat and began to throttle him as other Hawks moved in to separate the brawlers.

Despite – or maybe even _because –_ of the tension, Larson felt electricity run through his fingertips as they came into contact with the bare flesh on McGill's arms. The defenseman grasped his best friend's upper arms, and put all of his strength into peeling him off of Drew Herek.

This took considerable effort on Larson's part. McGill was tall and rock solid – Larson could feel that much in his friend's biceps and triceps. Scott Stevens and Jason Brown worked on pulling Herek away from McGill while Larson struggled alone with McGill. Several tense second passed when Herek, whose face had nearly turned blue, hawked another loogie, this time hitting McGill directly in the eye.

McGill's grip suddenly loosened, freeing Herek and sending McGill and Larson tumbling backward into the lockers. The first line center wiped away the spit on his face with his arm and tried to get back at Herek, but he could not escape Larson's desperate grasp. The defenseman may have wanted to clobber his best friend over what he had done to Adam, but whenever someone else came at McGill, Larson's protective instincts kicked into overdrive.

 _Even if he is a big dumb idiot._

Suddenly, the locker room door opened. The Hawks – all of whom had crowded around the Herek and McGill – froze. Having just lost the Championship to the "pathetic Little Duckies," they were all terrified of getting into even more trouble with their demanding head coach if he caught them fighting.

Would Reilly make good on the threat that he had made during the game? Would he really not let _any_ of them play next year?

"What's all this?"

A palpable sense of relief washed over the boys when they heard Assistant Coach Nystrom's voice instead of Reilly's.

"Uh…nothing, Coach," Jason Brown answered. "McGill was just showing us one of his bruises…you know how he is."

The assistant coach looked over to McGill, and noticed that the center was being held rather tightly by Larson.

"Heh, I bet," Nystrom replied. "If Larson keeps holding him _like that_ he might not be able to breathe."

Aware of the compromising optics, Larson dropped McGill like a hot potato.

"Anyway," Nystrom continued, "Coach Reilly isn't up for talking right now; he's a bit shocked, as you might imagine. But let me just say that I'm proud of you boys anyway. You all put up one heck of a season, and some of you even broke Hawk records for assists and shot blocks – as well as setting a new team record for killed power plays."

"No individual scoring record though," McGill sulked.

Nystrom nodded. He knew they would have had a new scoring record if a certain center had not gone over to the Mighty Ducks. The assistant coach sighed. He reasoned that the departure of Adam Banks was when the Hawks had lost their equilibrium.

"No, no scoring record," he confirmed. "But you boys still had an excellent season that you should be proud of."

The assistant coach could tell from his players' slumped shoulders and dejected faces, however, that his words of praise meant little to them. They knew that he would probably be gone next season. And what would happen once Jack Reilly finally came to his senses?

"I don't know what will happen next year," Nystrom confessed. "But I'm sure Coach Reilly will be in touch with each of you soon. Finish getting dressed, then clear out…that's all."

Once Nystrom had left, most of the boys returned to their lockers to finish getting dressed; but Herek stood in place, flanked by Stevens and Brown.

Brown looked over to McGill.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you gonna apologize to Drew?" Brown indicated Herek with his head.

"He still lost us the game," McGill scoffed. "If you wanna stick up for that loser, then that's your business. I'm too good for any of that crap."

Larson rolled his eyes.

 _Big. Dumb. Idiot._

"We lost this thing together, McGill," Brown countered. "If you hang one of us out to dry, you'll be all alone on the team. That's a promise."

McGill scoffed again, his silvery eyes oozing contempt.

"Who died and made you King of the Hawks, Brownie?"

"No one," Brown replied. "I'm not in charge. I'm just a teammate. You might wanna try being one yourself sometime, Jake."

The trio of Herek, Brown, and Stevens turned and made their way back to their lockers, leaving McGill alone next to Larson.

The temperamental forward turned to his best friend.

"He's wrong, isn't he, Paul? Winners don't make excuses…or cover for losers, do they?"

Larson shrugged.

"You're both _kinda_ right," the defenseman offered. "You're right that winners don't make excuses. And Jason's right about teammates not blaming other teammates for a loss."

McGill let out a mirthless laugh.

"There's the Paul Larson that I know. Always trying to split the difference, always trying to go right down the middle…always having a foot in both camps."

Larson raised a curious eyebrow.

"I know you kept in touch with Banksie after he betrayed us," McGill declared. "And that little stunt on the ice with you….and _him._ You actually miss that annoying little rat, don't you?"

Larson's normally-stoic brown eyes looked doe-like, and wounded.

"It was always us against the world, Jake," he nearly whispered. "You, me and Adam."

McGill bit his lip at Larson's invocation of the Golden Trio – the best part of his childhood that was now irretrievably gone. He hated Adam so much for ruining it.

"Now Adam's gone," Larson declared. "He's a Duck, and if you think he wants to come back to us after what you just pulled, you're crazy. Now it really is _us –_ meaning you and me – against the world. Push me away, Jake, and you'll have no one."

McGill did not like where this was heading, so he brushed it off.

"You know, Paul…you can be real dramatic when you're not busy being the Iceman," he teased. "I've got friends besides you, y'know."

Larson's eyebrows shot up in a mixture of surprise…and some jealousy. The defenseman had to know for sure.

"Hey, guys!" He called out to the locker room.

His teammates stopped what they were doing and immediately looked over at him. Because he was so quiet, Paul Larson tended to draw a lot of attention the few times he ever opened his mouth.

"McGill needs a ride home," Larson announced. "Who wants to give him one?"

The rest of the Hawks turned back to their lockers and carried on as if Larson had never asked the question. He turned back to McGill with a slightly triumphant look in his eyes.

"Yes, you have _loads_ of friends, Jake."

McGill's heart sank as the bitter truth sunk in. At school he was widely-hated, but at least he was feared. On his team, he was not feared, but he always hoped and assumed that the other boys saw him as a friend.

"No matter," Larson assured McGill. "There's plenty of room in my Old Man's truck for you," he added, placing a hand on Jake's bare shoulder.

But McGill scoffed. He was not about to show weakness in front of Paul Larson.

"You can give somebody else a ride, if you want… _Mr. Popular,"_ he replied, sliding Larson's hand off of his shoulder. "I'll find my own way."

McGill turned away, and the two boys finished dressing without exchanging another word. Gradually, Hawks began trickling out of the locker room to meet their waiting parents and go home. Larson knew that McGill would be the last one out, as always. His alcoholic parents were reliably unreliable, and retrieved their son –when they even remembered to – very late.

Larson hated McGill's parents almost as much as he hated his own father. They made his best friend feel completely worthless, and inflicted weekly humiliation on him with their inability to pick him up from games on time. Everyone on the Hawks knew that McGill had loser parents. And the only thing that was more hateful to a Hawk than a loser was _two_ losers. _  
_

The locker room was now empty except for Larson and McGill, and as the defenseman approached the door with his hockey bag slung over his shoulder and his stick in hand, he looked back to McGill. The forward was fully-dressed in his street clothes, ready to go, and quietly sitting on a stool – waiting for parents who would never come.

"Ready to go, Jake?"

Larson knew that McGill had turned down his offer of a ride, but pretended to forget about it.

"Just go," McGill replied without looking up.

Larson felt his dark eyes moisten as he took in the sight of his only real friend – alone and with nowhere to go. But if McGill insisted on playing games, then Larson had no choice but to play along. The defenseman cleared his throat.

"Your call," he replied in a firm voice before opening the door and walking out.

The echo of the heavy door slamming shut carried throughout the locker room. Alone on a stool, Jake McGill quietly broke down.

* * *

 _"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships-lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels – a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."_

Paul Larson shuddered as General Zaroff's words from _The Most Dangerous Game_ played on tape in Bill Larson's black Ram pickup. The Richard Connell short story, written in 1924, had always been one of the Old Man's favorites. Bill loved to listen to the audio version whenever he drove out for a weekend of hunting. Unfortunately for Bill, it was beyond his power to emulate the sinister Cossack who hunted his fellow man.

Bill did not have a private island where he could wine and dine shipwrecked sailors before turning them loose and hunting them – the most dangerous game – in a noble struggle where his own life was at equal risk.

 _God, what a thrill that would be._

The humble corrections officer had to settle for deer, turkey and duck instead. He had enjoyed hunting grizzlies when he was younger, but their presence in northern Minnesota had diminished considerably over the years, and his ability to hunt those particular monsters was limited by Canadian hunting regulations.

 _Goddamn Commies._

Despite having to hunt less exciting game than his fictional hero, General Zaroff, Bill still enjoyed being out in the elements – stalking and dispatching his prey. He also felt that it was important to instill proper manliness in his son, and he always left the bloody business of field dressing to his 11-year old boy. No son of Bill Larson was ever going to shed a tear for Bambi.

It was mid-March, and most of the snow back home in the Twin Cities had melted. Up north, however, it still looked and felt a great deal like winter. The Old Man had hoped for snowfall, as it would have diminished visibility and forced the deer to rely more on their sense of smell.

The prison guard had taken all the usual precautions to negate that particular advantage of the deer. He had bathed thoroughly in fragrance-free soap and shampoo, and instructed his son to do the same. The week before, Bill stamped some frozen soil into their hunting clothes, giving it a nice, earthy smell that would allow them to blend in.

All of this attention to detail rubbed right off on Paul, and none of the considerable preparations had gone unnoticed by the boy. He found it striking what little time they actually spent hunting. _Preparing_ for the hunt took much longer, but that suited the boy's cautious, brooding temperament. He never wanted to rely on luck, and he seldom acted without a patiently-devised plan. In that sense, the boy was a natural hunter.

Eventually, the Larson men arrived at the camp site. Bill had decided that Shadow, their newish dog, would not be of much use for the game they intended to hunt over this particular weekend – although the chocolate lab had shown quite an aptitude for swimming, and had proven invaluable in duck hunting the previous autumn.

So it was just Bill and Paul. Bill parked his pickup in his reserved spot and got out to unhitch the attached camper that his truck had been pulling. Once the camper was detached, Bill parked his truck parallel to it. Paul looked on in awe as his father pulled a portable generator out of the flatbed, and lifted it like it was an empty cardboard box.

"Well, don't just stand there!" Bill snapped. "Get the gas!"

"Uh, yes, sir."

The boy climbed onto the truck bed and fished for one of the large red gas cans.

The full can was quite heavy, but Paul did not dare let his exertion show. Had he done that, he risked incurring his father's wrath over 'bratiness,' or possible 'girliness.'

Bill had moved swiftly to connect the generator to the trailer, and he had already opened the gas tank. He remained hunched over by the generator, waiting as his son struggled with the unwieldy can. But eventually, Paul made it over and gently set the can next to his father.

"Be quicker about it next time," Bill chided, unscrewing the nozzle. He let out an annoyed grunt. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Paul gasped as his frightened eyes widened at the realization that he had forgotten the funnel.

 _How could I be so stupid?!_

"Sorry, sir. I'll be right back," the boy turned and sprinted back to the truck.

He returned in a flash, with a red funnel in hand.

"Sorry again, sir," he extended the funnel toward his father, who snatched it impatiently.

"Don't be sloppy, Paul," Bill advised. "It's never good to be sloppy – especially with all these guns around."

Paul swallowed nervously.

Holding the funnel with one big, powerful hand, Bill lifted the gas can with the other and began to pour. Paul was amazed by how his old man could lift and control such a heavy can with one hand. It had taken the boy both arms and tremendous exertion to carry it; he also knew that if he had done the pouring, gas would have spilled all over the place.

He shuddered at the thought of what his father would do to punish him for wasting gas.

The tank to the generator had been bone dry, so filling it took some time. Bill looked up at his son as the gas continued to pour.

"So what'd you think about that story?"

Paul knew how much his father liked _The Most Dangerous Game_ , so the boy was quick to offer his praise.

"Great, sir. Really great. I wish we read stories like that in school."

"Heh, you and me both," Bill agreed. "We're turnin' into a nation of fags and sissies with the la-dee-dah crap they're makin' kids read these days."

Paul winced at the word 'fag,' and the venom with which his Old Man spat it out. This flinch had not gone unnoticed by Bill.

"What, you cold or somethin'?"

"No, sir!"

"Good. Cold builds character."

The two were silent for a moment as Bill continued to fill the gas tank. Eager to make the weekend go as smoothly as possible, Paul broke the silence in the hopes of winning his Old Man's grudging approval.

"There's only one thing I'd change to improve the story."

Bill looked up from the tank, intrigued.

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir. Zaroff should have added 'fags' to his hunting list."

Bill flashed a gnarly white grin.

"Good thinkin', Paulie."

The boy let out a barely perceptible sigh of relief. He had been slightly worried that he would provoke his father by suggesting that his favorite story could be improved. But the gamble paid off, and Bill appreciated his son's input – even while it deepened Paul's self-loathing.

With the gas tank full, Bill switched on the power, and Paul's uncomfortable thoughts were disturbed by the hum of the generator.

"Grab the grill – won't ya, Paulie?"

The boy eagerly nodded.

"Yes, sir."

Not wanting to waste any time, Paul raced ahead to the pickup and grabbed a foldable red Aussie Walkabout that he found easy enough to carry. Bill quickly caught up to his son with his long stride, and grabbed a sealed plastic barrel full of charcoal. With the grilling station set up, Paul got to work lighting the charcoal while Bill grabbed a cooler full of red meat, frozen vegetables, and canned beans.

Eventually, the Larson men sat down to dinner inside the camper. The refrigerator had been running long enough to be of use as Bill began moving food into it from the coolers. Although they were sheltered from the bitter winds, the trailer was still quite cold, as Bill kept the tiny space heater on its lowest possible setting.

Gas was a precious and expensive resource, and the brutally practical corrections officer was not about to waste it on extra heat when they could simply wear warm clothes and use extra blankets.

The sun had set, and the Larson men turned in for the night – Bill in the camper's bed, and Paul sprawled out on the small sofa.

As he tried to get to sleep, the boy let out a tiny shiver, which he might have gotten away with had he not gasped at his mistake.

 _Oh, no...oh...no.  
_

"You cold, boy?"

"Nnnn-nnn no, s-s-sir."

But Paul's chattering teeth gave him away.

Bill got out of bed, snatched his son's blankets, and took them for himself.

"You're right. Be a winner, not a whiner."

* * *

The weekend of hunting had been a miserable and uncomfortable, but instructive one for the boy. He had gotten off a bad shot on a 10-point buck, much to the Old Man's fury. Being out in the hunt, however, Bill knew that he had to keep calm and create minimal disturbances, so Paul's punishment would have to wait for another day.

Eventually, the Larson men tracked the wounded deer through a trail of blood, made more visible by the snow. Once they cornered the dying animal, Bill finished it off, then ordered his son to atone for his earlier sloppiness with a clean field dressing.

Paul wielded the buck knife with a precision and steeliness that made his father feel something that was close to pride, and as the boy finished his work, Bill decided to impart a bit of wisdom.

"A wounded deer will always return home – or die trying."

Paul looked up at his old man, confused.

"Sir?"

"A wounded deer will always return home – or die trying," Bill repeated. "If you've stalked a deer properly, you'll know the place that it calls home. So if you give a deer a non-lethal wound, you'll always be able to find it by headin' for his home."

"I see, sir," Paul nodded.

During the ride home, the boy played back his father's advice in his head. He found it strangely reassuring.

 _A wounded deer will always return home—or die trying._

Jake McGill was clearly wounded. He had lost Adam, his team had gotten humiliated in the Championship by some lucky upstart, his parents didn't give a damn about him, and he had no friends even among his fellow Hawks.

 _A wounded deer will always return home—or die trying._

Paul grinned at the image of a teary and contrite Jake McGill crawling back to him. It certainly seemed likely to happen. After all, who else could McGill possibly turn to? Paul Larson's friendship was Jake's only safe haven in the brutal world that the boys shared. McGill would come crawling back. He had to. He had no alternative.

This meant that Paul Larson could drive a very hard bargain. For starters, no more Jake McGill going off and head-hunting Adam, or anyone else without Larson's expressed permission. Larson would also see to it that Jake kept his grades up in school, and stayed out of unnecessary trouble. He would not allow anyone into Jake's life that he did not approve of. And he would never, _ever_ allow Jake to wander off into the world by himself.

Paul Larson had to _own_ Jake McGill. It was the only way he could be assured that he would not lose his friend.

McGill's temper and headstrong nature had unraveled the Golden Trio. To help his friend, Larson had to break him...he had to completely crush Jake McGill's will and spirit.

 _All for Jake's own good, of course._

Once McGill accepted the place that Larson would designate for him, the defenseman even felt that there was a possibility that Adam might be induced to revive the Golden Trio. But Larson knew that he had to be patient. Fortunately, that was one quality that he possessed in spades.

And of course, there had to be a plan.

Larson knew that he was equipped to devise one. Or however many were required. He also remembered his Old Man's advice.

 _A wounded deer will always return home – or die trying._

Was Adam still wounded? Had the 'Little Duckies' truly accepted the former Hawk? Perhaps, but perhaps not. Regardless, Larson was confident that Adam would eventually come crawling back home, if not from his recent wounds, then from future wounds inflicted by his fickle Duck 'friends' who could never give the same loyalty and protection that Paul Larson could give.

As his old man's Ram barreled down the highway, heading for home, the defenseman made a solemn vow to himself to revive the Golden Trio. He did not care how long it took, or how many people he had to crush along the way. And when a wounded Adam finally returned home, Larson would be ready – like a good hunter.

And he would never, _ever_ let Adam wander off again.


	14. Hockey in Summertime

**Chapter Fourteen: Hockey in Summertime**

"Here we are, Mr. Tibbles," the chauffeur announced, opening the backdoor to the company limousine.

Don Tibbles, Senior Vice President of Marketing for Hendrix Hockey Apparel looked through the opening and saw the skate shop of Hans and Jan. The large white building stood lonely and somewhat forlorn by the glittering blue pond that served as an outdoor skating rink during the winter.

 _Water-front property…could be worth a fortune if they opened it up to high-end development._

"Uh, thank you, Driver," Tibbles replied, unfastening his seatbelt. "Keep the engine running, will, ya? I won't be long."

"Yes, sir."

Deciding to 'go casual,' Tibbles left his Filofax in the limo as he stepped into the May sunshine. The business executive had turned 50 earlier that month, having spent the last half of his life patiently climbing the corporate ladder. With his short, graying curls, brown eyes, paunchy build, medium height, and endless supply of charcoal suits, Don Tibbles looked like the average corporate drone.

But his blasé physical appearance and 'aw shucks' demeanor masked a calculating business mind. He never would have risen to his position without having a keen eye for rich, plump marketing cows – or the ability to milk them for all that they were worth.

Tibbles sensed strong potential in Gordon Bombay: a young, handsome ex-lawyer who had earned the nickname 'the Minnesota Miracle Man' for his Pee Wee team's improbable championship victory against the perennial champion Hawks. Better still, Tibbles knew that Bombay was a man who was down on his luck. After clawing his way into professional hockey for the past two years in the Minors, a knee injury from a cheap shot had taken Bombay out of the game right when he was on the verge of an NHL breakthrough.

 _Such a shame._

As Tibbles approached the entrance to the skate shop, he figured that Bombay would be easy enough to entice. But as he approached a rack of hockey sticks, he decided to work the 'lovable fool' routine, just in case Bombay's old lawyerly cynicism made him dubious. He picked up a hockey stick from the wrong end, and began to inspect it when Jan noticed him.

The tall, balding Norwegian was the quiet younger brother of Hans, and the two of them shared proprietorship over the skate shop. Hans had decided to take advantage of the slow warm weather business cycle by visiting the Old Country, leaving Jan to run the place by himself – although he had enlisted Charlie Conway as an apprentice.

The boy had been eager to get away from his annoying new stepfather, and Jan needed all the help he could get.

The skate merchant dropped what he was doing, then went to the back to retrieve Gordon, who was hard at work sharpening skates.

" **You don't have to do that now,"** Jan declared, wheeling-in a cart full of skates.

" **Ah, thanks."**

" **You have a customer. Go help him,** ** _then_** **come back and do that."**

Gordon rolled his eyes, but switched off the machine – Jan was much more of a taskmaster than his jovial brother.

The younger man had a slight limp in his walk as he made his way to the front of the shop, but at least he was no longer hobbling on a cane. He noticed a middle-aged man in a business suit holding a hockey stick in the most awkward way imaginable.

" **Can I help you?"** Gordon called out.

Tibbles turned and slammed the butt of the stick into a nearby display, looking like a perfectly harmless klutz in the process.

" **Heh, sorry…got away from me,"** he offered, straightening out the display. **"Hi."**

Gordon rolled his eyes.

Tibbles smiled broadly as he took in the sight of Gordon Bombay looking casual, but clean in his blue jeans and gray collared shirt – the sleeves of which were rolled up at the elbow. It did not matter how good the product was, it simply would never sell if it was peddled by an ugly or plain frontman. Fortunately for Tibbles, that was not going to be an issue with the handsome young man standing across from him.

" **Oh, wow…yeah, you look great,"** he offered. **"Yeah, much better than your pictures."**

Gordon was beginning to feel that his clumsy visitor was a bit on the creepy side, but he managed to remain polite.

" **Thanks."**

" **I'm Don Tibbles. Senior VP, Hendrix Hockey Apparel,"** he announced, approaching Gordon with an outstretched hand, which the younger man shook. **"How's the knee? You know I've got a doctor out in Los Angeles willing to take a look at it. He's doing great things with baboon ligaments."**

" **Hendrix Hockey, huh?"** Gordon took the stick that Tibbles had been holding and moved to put it away before the older man could cause any further mayhem. **"What exactly is it that you want, Mr. Tibbles?"**

" **I want you, Gordon."**

The younger man looked up, somewhat startled as Tibbles continued.

" **I want the next Coach of Team USA to become a household name. I want you to become synonymous with winning, and winning to become synonymous with Hendrix."**

Gordon shook his head in disbelief.

" **Wait – you're joking, right? This is a joke…"**

Tibbles shook his head.

" **This is no joke. This is the real thing, Gordon."**

" **You want me to coach Team USA?"**

" **Your friend, Jan, has been pitching you for months. Gordon, what you did with the Ducks was magic. And we – and by 'we,' I mean Hendrix Hockey, the Junior Goodwill Games, and** ** _your country –_** **need that magic. Whaddaya say, Coach?"**

Gordon's eyes were aglitter. He had, earlier that day, expressed his frustration to Jan with his playing career having slipped away. He did not want to spend the rest of his life in some **"r** **inky dink town, sharpening skates."** The young man wanted glory, the big stage. And now, Don Tibbles was offering him a place on that stage.

The wily business executive could tell from the excitement in Gordon's eyes that he had found his new frontman. Tibbles grinned as he wrapped an arm around Gordon's shoulders.

" **Come on, let's round up those Ducks! We got a lotta work to do!"**

" **Gordon,"** Jan held out a duck call. **"Use this."**

" **Thanks, Jan."**

" **Go get 'em, Gordon!"** Tibbles enthused, taking care to stay close.

But before Gordon could leave the shop, he felt Tibbles' hand land softly on his shoulder. The business executive had a bomb to drop, and he had been careful to drop it only after Gordon agreed to do his bidding.

"There's just one more thing, Coach."

"Oh?"

"We're gonna need you to shave your roster."

Gordon's eyes widened in surprise. He had been away from the Ducks for two years; Lewis, his former driver and assistant coach, had been coaching the team while Gordon chased his NHL dream. Now that Gordon was back, the first thing he had to do was cut players.

"We need you to free-up five roster spots, to be exact," Tibbles clarified. "I've got you five new kids – great kids – from all over the country. We can't have Team USA all be from the same state now, can we? Anyway, I got you a goalie, a defenseman, and three forwards. Adjust your roster accordingly."

The younger man looked disappointed, but did not protest. And Tibbles was not about to give him a chance to, either.

"Unfortunately, I've got another engagement. So I have to head out; but you'll take care of this for me, won't you Gordon?"

Before Gordon could respond, Tibbles gave him an affable clap on the arm.

"Of course you will! See you soon!"

And with that, Don Tibbles took his leave.

Gordon looked back to Jan, who was standing at the counter.

"Terry Hall says he won't play next season," the skate merchant announced. "He's giving hockey up for basketball, the silly boy. So there's one spot free."

Gordon nodded in appreciation. He still had four more spots to free-up. It was obvious that tiny Peter Mark and Tommy Duncan did not have the size to compete against the top youth hockey players from around the world. And he doubted that the slight Tammy Duncan would hold up any better. And of course, there was Dave Karp; the little fire hydrant of a defenseman clearly lacked the quickness and overall athleticism needed to compete at the highest level.

The young coach let out a disappointed sigh. He knew what needed to be done, but that did not make it any easier.

* * *

Charlie was given the task by Gordon to round up the Ducks – minus Terry, Tommy, Tammy, Peter, and Karp. The Duck Captain had already known about Terry's plans for next year, so he was not surprised by that particular omission; but he found it odd that Coach Bombay had told him to gather only half the roster.

Nevertheless, Charlie was thrilled to be playing hockey in the summertime – in the Junior Goodwill Games, no less. So he did not grill his coach over the roster omissions. He simply went about gathering Jesse, Averman, Connie, Guy, and Goldberg, trumpeting his duck call as he flew around th Twin Citiy sburbs on his rollerblades.

Eventually, the group realized that they had arrived in Edina as they skated past large, expensive houses. Not only had Adam made considerable direct contributions to the Ducks' Championship victories subsequent to Bombay's departure, but the former Hawk also raised the game of all his teammates – especially his linemates Jesse and Guy. Obviously, Adam Banks was never going to get cut from the roster.

The Ducks pulled up at the end of a long driveway, where they discovered Adam practicing shots on a cardboard goalie. In addition to his rollerblades, the wealthiest Duck wore a pale yellow polo shirt and khaki shorts.

" **Between his legs….score!"** Adam did the play-by-play as he tapped the puck into the net.

Charlie blew on the duck call, prompting Adam to look up with a start.

" **Hey, Cake Eater!"** Jesse called out affectionately. **"You wanna play some** ** _real_** **hockey?"**

" **Yeah!"** Adam enthused, his 13-year old voice cracking slightly.

He joined his teammates in the street and soon discovered that the 'real hockey' that Jesse had alluded to was none other than the Junior Goodwill Games. Adam, cautious and thoughtful, worried that his teammates were in over their heads. It was one thing to beat up on Minnesota Pee Wee teams, but defeating the world's best was quite another.

" **Guys, it's an international competition. It's us against the** ** _world!"_**

Adam's invocation of the Golden Trio's refrain did not feel the least bit off to him. Although he had parted ways with Jake McGill and Paul Larson, his experience as a Hawk had left its imprint. His colors may have changed, but Adam Banks still saw the world as a place brimming with ill intent, and his team as a sort of defensive pact that both offered and demanded protection.

" **Yeah, bring 'em on! We're ready!"** Goldberg confidently declared – before careening off the path and landing in the middle of some couple's picnic.

The Ducks had been skating through the park in the hopes of finding the last Minnesota-based Duck to round out their half of the new roster. It seemed odd to the Ducks that Fulton Reed would be spending his Saturday afternoon in a ritzy park in the middle of Edina, but Adam had sworn to the others that he had seen the burly defenseman there earlier.

At the far end of the pond, Larson, McGill and Scott Stevens had been fishing. While the Hawk trio baited their hooks, Larson looked up to discover the hated 'Llittle Duckies' skating on a walkway.

 _Heh, no rollerblades are allowed on that path…but the precious Little Duckies can get away with anything,_ Larson thought bitterly.

" **Ducks,"** he growled, prompting his companions to look up.

All three boys had grown quite a bit over the last two years, and Larson had grown to be about eye level with McGill. However, the hair of both boys had darkened. Scott Stevens, on the other hand, remained very blond. McGill still wore a Hawks cap, despite last season having been their final one in Pee-Wee's, along with a gray polo shirt, while Larson had on his usual black T-shirt and a pair of navy shorts. Stevens wore khaki shorts and a preppy, salmon-pink collared shirt that was open at the top three buttons.

" **I still can't believe they beat us last year,"** McGill declared.

After Jack Reilly's meltdown and subsequent retirement, the Hawk roster had gotten totally revamped, and the boys in black had felt confident that they would be back on top—only to lose again…and again…to the loathsome Little Duckies.

" **Let's do something about it,"** he continued.

Larson gave an approving nod. Although Hawk hockey had not gone according to plan over the last two seasons, at least Larson had succeeded in neutering McGill. The blustery forward no longer dared to make a move without securing Larson's approval first.

The defenseman still harbored hopes of bringing Adam back into the fold, but Adam's persistent rebuffs to his overtures remained a continuing source of displeasure. If Adam could not be charmed away from the Ducks, then Larson needed to find ways to get the Ducks to push him out.

 _All he needs is a little misunderstanding,_ he reasoned.

If the Ducks got humiliated in Edina, Adam's home turf, who would they blame for it?

"Alright, let's clothesline these twerps," Larson proposed, retrieving a spool of fishing line from his tackle box.

 _And once those twerps hit the ground, we'll come out acting like it was Adam who tipped us off.  
_

The defenseman ran to a tree and began tying the end of the spool to it, while McGill pulled the line taut, cut another end, then tied it to the tree opposite Larson's along the pathway.

As the Ducks drew nearer to the trap, the Hawks took refuge by some stacked canoes. The trio gleefully waited as their prey moved in, closer and closer.

" **They're sitting ducks,"** Larson smirked.

" **Here they come…I love this,"** Stevens chimed in.

" **They are** ** _so_** **stupid,"** McGill declared.

" **One large order of shredded duck, comin' up!"** Larson quipped.

" ** _They won't know what hit 'em,"_** came a deep, unfamiliar voice from behind.

" **I know!"** Stevens enthused.

The Hawks laughed – until they realized that one of the voices had not belonged to them.

" **Who said that?"** Stevens asked.

The trio turned around apprehensively.

" **Hi, guys!"** Fulton Reed offered a faux-affable grin.

Years later, Larson would struggle to piece together what exactly happened next. He never could figure out how one Duck could throw around three Hawks like dog toys, strip them down to their boxers, and tie them to a tree with their own fishing line. But the Duck defenseman managed to do it…somehow.

As the Hawks struggled to break free, Fulton held up a pair of Hawk shorts in triumph before his teammates.

" **That'll teach 'em to mess with the Ducks!"**

The Ducks – Adam included – roared their approval as the humiliated Hawks continued to struggle against the line.

Eventually the Ducks moved out of sight, and the trio's pleas for help were no longer heard. Larson was terrified at the prospect of being spotted by classmates from Sienna Middle School. He had worked hard to become the invisible king of the school – the guy who had dirt on everyone, and could call in a favor from just about anyone – and all of that work risked being undone by a chance sighting in his underwear. Worse still was the possibility of being _photographed_ in nothing but his boxers…next to two other guys who were just as scantily-clad.

The three had gotten red in the face after several minutes of crying for help, but finally gave up. Help would come when it came, and it probably would involve a classmate.

Larson shuddered at the thought.

"It's getting looser!" McGill exclaimed.

That may have been partly true, he had definitely shifted closer to the center of the tree…and had become more visible to Larson.

As Larson took in the sight of McGill, the defenseman became transfixed. He wanted to look away, but his eyes locked onto his half-naked friend like a pair of magnets.

McGill could feel Larson's dark eyes home in on him. The defenseman was clearly staring, of that much McGill was certain. Had it just been a quick glance, he could have simply ignored it. But this was a full, long, and rather uncomfortable stare. Not even McGill's probing look in return could do anything to break the spell that Larson seemed to be under.

At last, McGill spoke up.

"See something ya like there, Iceman?"

The question snapped Larson out of his trance, and he became flustered.

"No!" He snapped, perhaps too vehemently.

"Oh…okay," McGill looked back down.

"Jake, you alright?" Stevens asked. "You sounded sad just now."

"Just shut up, both of you!" McGill demanded.

 _My pleasure,_ Larson thought, relieved that the subject had become closed. _  
_

Lucky for the Hawks, this particular stretch of the park was all-quiet. Incredibly, they still had not been spotted for several minutes.

Then came the sound of rollerblades.

 _Oh God…who can it be?_

As Larson looked up to discover his visitor, the look of dread on his face gave way to relief.

"Oh, Adam," he smiled. "It's only you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The Duck forward demanded.

"Er…nothing. Say, could you untie the three of us? For….um…old time's sake?"

"Only on one condition."

"Yes?"

"Leave my friends alone. Don't ever bother them again."

McGill snorted.

"See, Paul? I told you _Banksie_ is one of them…and he'll always be one of those losers."

Adam rolled his eyes.

"Did you forget about the last _three_ championships already, McGill?"

"Shut up!"

"Heh. Witty as always, _Jakey._ "

Adam turned to leave the three Hawks tied to the tree when Larson spoke up.

"Adam…I'm really sorry. About everything."

The Duck looked over at his former friend. Larson's brown eyes had taken on a glossy sheen, and his voice sounded weak and wistful. Seeing the defenseman's apparent remorse, Adam wished that he could set him free while leaving Stevens and McGill firmly in place. But once the line was broken, all three of them would be free.

He sighed as he reached into his pocket and retrieved his Swiss Army knife.

With one quick slice of the line, the Hawks were free.

"Thanks, Adam!" Larson offered with a genial clap on the arm. "And stay in touch, will ya?"

But Adam shook his head, unmoved by Larson's latest overture.

"I'm not trying to be your friend, Larson. I'm just going easy on you because I feel sorry for you...and because I'm an idiot."

Without saying another word, Adam returned to the path and skated away from his former friends. He soon discovered, much to his horror, that he had been observed releasing the Hawks by a fellow Duck.

"Yo, Cake Eater!"

"Uh…hi, Jesse," Adam replied. "What were you doing?"

"Just makin' sure the Hawks kept their hands to themselves."

"Huh?"

"Backup, man! I was providing backup! If they went at you, I was gonna step in."

"Oh…so you're not mad at me for cutting them loose?"

Jesse shrugged.

"Somebody had to do it sooner or later."

A wave of relief washed over Adam when he realized that Jesse did not see him as a traitor. But as Adam's mind flashed back to that tense hockey practice in 1993, his face became morose. The image of a tear-stained Jesse struggling to get back to his feet after Adam's vicious attack played back in his head. This was not the first time that his guilty conscience played repeats from its list of 'greatest hits,' but it would take Adam much longer to forgive himself than it had for Jesse to forgive him.

"What's wrong, Cake Eater?"

Adam shook his head slightly.

"Nothing, Jesse. Let's go join the others – stay close to me."

Jesse nodded.

"You got it, Banks."

* * *

Once Tibbles had secured Gordon's signature on the dotted line, the remaining Ducks gathered at a local arena in their all-green uniforms to meet their new teammates. Gordon had taken care of the unpleasant business of breaking the news to the disappointed Ducks who had not made the cut, and he was eager to see what his new kids had to offer.

Adam, being a massive hockey nerd, was also interested in seeing what his new teammates brought to the table.

The newbies included a moca-skinned boy named Luis Mendoza from Miami, Florida. Donning a blue-and-orange uniform, the speedster flew around the ice and turned a lot of heads with his impressive skating – only to crash loudly into the boards as he failed to stop.

A brown-haired boy took off a black Stetson before putting on a hockey mask and jovially greeting his new teammates. Dwayne Robertson of Austin, Texas dazzled the Ducks by dribbling the puck while showing off his footwork.

 _Bit of a showoff – but he's got the goods,_ Adam thought.

Up next came the goalie, a blonde-haired girl donning a red Bangor Rams jersey named Julie 'the Cat' Gaffney. According to Tibbles, she had led her team to three state championships over in Maine. Connie immediately put her to the test by firing a barrage of pucks at the new goalie, who batted each of them away like a cat with a ball of yarn.

Of all the newbies, Adam found Julie the most intriguing. He relished the prospect of figuring out a new goalie's tics…and getting the best of her.

Ken Wu, a diminutive Chinese-American from San Francisco and a former Olympic figure skater, showed off his elusive moves. As graceful as they were, Adam worried that the boy was too small to withstand a hockey pounding.

One boy who definitely would _not_ have that problem, however, was big Dean Portman out of Chicago, Illinois. Sporting a blue bandana and a black Morgan Park jersey cut at the sleeves, the gigantic teenager came charging onto the ice with a song from Bone Club blaring on his Walkman.

 ** _"Don't you know that everything's on FIIII-RE!"_** The brown-haired defenseman sang along as he knocked Charlie onto his butt in passing.

" **That guy's a** ** _teenager?"_** Gordon asked incredulously.

" **Uh, yeah,"** Tibbles confirmed. **"Hormones."**

" **He's a goon!"**

" **C'mon, Tex! Sing it with me!"** Portman grabbed Dwayne by the shoulders, who nervously shook his head 'no.'

Portman shrugged, then carried on.

" **Here ya go, sweetie!"** He tossed his stick at Julie, who caught it in the air.

" **My kids don't play that kind of hockey,"** Gordon declared.

" **I believe they're called 'enforcers', Gordon,"** Tibbles countered. **"And when you play Iceland, you're gonna need them."**

" **My little man!"** Portman enthused, picking up Ken and planting him on top of a net.

" **Who does this guy think he is?"** Fulton wondered aloud.

The Old Ducks, who were smarting from the loss of their original teammates, immediately bore down on the newcomers and angrily demanded what they were doing barging onto their team. Adam hung back uncomfortably while his older teammates confronted his newer teammates.

Then, a whistle pierced the air.

" **Everybody freeze!"** Gordon called out.

After settling his players down – and confiscating the whistle of an overly enthusiastic Tibbles – Gordon ordered the old Ducks and the newbies to line up against each other in a scrimmage.

Most of the old Ducks proved rusty, but Adam managed to get one by Julie in the 2-hole; and Fulton's slap-shot had not lost any of its zip. In fact, the puck ricocheted off the crossbar of the net, struck a beam in the rafters, then made a bee-line for the head of Don Tibbles – who was walking a blonde woman to one of the team benches.

" **Duck!"** She warned

" **That's right, the Ducks."**

 ** _Ping_**

Eventually, Tibbles came-to with the help of some salts as his head rested on a towel on Julie's lap, with the goalie holding an icepack against his forehead.

" **Oh, Mr. Tibbles! Are you alright?"** The unfamiliar woman asked.

" **Oh, I'll have the cheeseburger, fries and chocolate shake,"** he replied.

Once they determined that the Hendrix executive would be alright, the woman introduced herself as Michelle McKay, the team's tutor. With the kids having been pulled out of school before the end of term, a tutor had become mandatory for player participation, much to their chagrin.

Eventually, the players cleared out, but after Jesse, Fulton and Guy crashed a Zamboni through the boards, Gordon decided to kill two birds with one stone: discipline the trouble-makers while building team chemistry. To do this, he tied returning Ducks and new arrivals together and forced them to skate as one. After falling down several times, the kids eventually got the hang of coordinating and cooperating, and skated around with ease. Once that exercise was complete, Gordon decided to let his players unwind by having Dwayne chase them around the rink with a lasso before dancing together.

With old Ducks and the newbies beginning to gel somewhat, the players changed into their red-white-and-blue USA training jackets, and posed for team photos before Gordon called it a day.


	15. Playing with a Cat

**A/N:** I have an insanely busy few days coming up, and I had been editing this chapter for a while, so I figured that I'd do a double update to tide you over until I return. Thanks as always to _texaskid, reallyneedahobby,_ and _Mami-21_ for reviewing :)

 **Chapter Fifteen: Playing with a Cat**

Grade school had still been in session when Team USA gathered in Minnesota, but the university calendar read 'summer recess,' so a local college loaned their facilities to the team while they got ready to head to the West Coast.

Like the rest of the Minnesota-based players, Adam had a bed and regular meals cooked for him at home. But he knew the importance of spending time with his teammates off the ice in order to build and maintain chemistry, so his mother had dropped him off at the college some time ago, and he carried a breakfast tray into the campus dining hall.

The quiet center surveyed the tables before him. Naturally, all of the out-of-staters were there. Charlie and Fulton were the only in-staters at the moment, though the rest were expected to show up at some point. Adam could hear Fulton and Portman chat excitedly about the guitarplay of some guy named 'Slash,' and realized that this was not a conversation for him.

Charlie had apparently taken it upon himself to act as chaperone between Gordon and Ms. McKay, causing Adam to chuckle as he observed his captain do his best to command their coach's full attention. It seemed that Charlie was determined to keep Gordon single and ready to swoop in and marry Casey just in case she decided to send her new husband packing.

It appeared that the former Hawk had no choice but to sit with the newbies. Not that it bothered him; he knew what it was like to be an outsider on a team, and he was eager to make his new teammates feel welcome. He spotted a seat open by the girl – _Julie's her name, right? –_ and made his way over.

The blonde goalie had been wearing a gold-striped purple shirt and pink sweatpants. Not the most flattering outfit, but she was obviously comfortable. Adam was still wearing a light blue jacket over his white polo shirt, as the mid-spring morning had been chilly. As he got closer, he could see that the girl was poking at her scrambled eggs while reading some book.

"Um…hi," Adam began, causing Julie to look up.

The green-eyed girl flashed a dazzling white smile that caught his breath.

"Hi," she replied.

"Hi," he repeated.

He never expected a teammate to have this sort of effect on him, and was at a loss for words. Then he remembered.

"Um…. _isthisseattaken,"_ he raced below his breath, causing Julie to strain to hear.

She shrugged, unsure of what the forward had said.

"You can sit here, if you like," she offered, patting the space next to her on the table.

"Thanks," Adam managed a bit louder as he set his tray down and pulled out a chair.

Julie tried to return to her reading –one of R.L. Stine's _Goosebumps_ novels – but was distracted by the divine smell of the quiet boy who was taking his seat next to her. The only male that Julie knew who smelled that good on a consistent basis was her father. The boys in her life, which included teammates and two brothers, were all hockey players who typically smelled like unwashed feet.

Adam looked over as he pulled in his chair, and caught Julie staring.

"Um…"

Julie blushed, embarrassed that she had been caught.

"Sorry," she offered with another smile. "You smell nice, that's all."

He returned the smile with a relieved laugh.

"Oh, good…I thought I farted or something. You know…a lot of guys have farts that are really nasty but really quiet. Um….not that I'm one of them. Or that I fart – in public anyway. I mean…we all have to at some point, don't we?"

Now it was Julie's turn to laugh.

"I guess," she agreed. "You're funny."

Adam's eyes widened. While some of his teammates over the years appreciated his sense of humor, he had been called a 'smart mouth' by his father enough times to recognize that 'funny' was not always intended as a compliment. But he nodded politely before turning to his tray.

"Your name's Adam, right?"

He turned to meet a big, beautiful pair of emerald eyes that caught another one of his breaths.

"Uh, yeah," he nodded, extending his right hand. "Adam Banks."

Julie grinned as she noticed that Adam had forgotten about the straw in his hand. In a series of quick, cat-like movements, she snatched the straw, stabbed it through the plastic wrapper with the table, and drove it into his milk carton before shaking his hand.

"Julie Gaffney," she replied. "They call me 'the Cat' back home in Maine, but you really don't have to."

Adam let out a surprised laugh – it turned out that he had something in common with the pretty goalie: dopey nicknames that they both despised.

"You got it, _Julie_ ," he replied, drawing an appreciative nod.

He lifted his milk carton with a slight flourish.

"And thanks," he added before taking a sip.

"No problem. Milk does the body good, as they say."

Adam chuckled, he had no idea why. He had heard that little milk slogan a million times on TV, and it had never made him crack his face before. Why laugh now?

 _Gah! And why does milk come out the nose when you laugh? Someone should tell God that's a serious design flaw._

"Sweet!" Came Portman's voice. "We got our own milk fountain on the team!"

The others – except Julie – looked at Adam and began to laugh. Once all the milk had cleared his nasal passage, he coughed a little to clear his throat.

"Yep, it's what I do," he offered, doing his best to save face. "Just don't ask for _chocolate_ milk. You won't like where _that_ comes from."

His teammates laughed again, this time more with him than at him. They soon turned back to their trays and their own conversations, leaving Adam alone with a puddle of milk on the table.

 _Where'd Julie go?_

He sighed, unsurprised that she did not want to sit next to such a massive dork. Then, he heard her voice.

"Here you go," she handed him a napkin before setting a stack of them onto the table to absorb the puddle before sitting back down.

"That was a great comeback, by the way," she added with a smile.

"Thanks."

He turned away to blow his nose as quietly as he could manage. He figured that nothing would seal his reputation as a goofus more quickly than a loud discharge of the nose at that point.

The trash cans were not far from their table, so he managed to dispose of his used napkin with a flick of the wrist while remaining seated.

 _Nothin' but net!_

"Heh, you don't miss often, do you?"

Adam turned back with a start.

"More than I'd like to," he confessed.

"You scored on me," Julie reminded him. "How'd you do that, by the way? You know – get past Dwayne? His footwork's amazing!

Adam nodded. Dwayne definitely had the footwork to be a formidable defender, but Adam had seen those moves before: once in 1991 against the Flames, again in 1993 against the Cubs, and twice last year against the Hawks. He could remember most of his games very well, as he pored over gametape repeatedly and obsessively. There was always so much to learn, and so much to adapt to; it frustrated Adam that there was always something, never the same thing, that allowed his opponents to keep him off-balance.

"I got lucky," he lied with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Oh," she had expected more from the boy who seemed so dominant on the ice. "Well, hopefully you'll stay lucky when we get to LA!"

He nodded in reply, but as he looked over Julie's shoulder, he had only just noticed a large board covered with some black cloth.

"What do you think that is?" He asked, indicating the board with his head.

Julie turned and followed Adam's gaze.

"I don't know," she replied. "Mr. Tibbles was really excited about it though."

He chuckled.

"What?" She asked, returning the grin.

"Oh, it's stupid."

"Well I figured _that_ much," Julie teased. "But tell me anyway, pleeeease?"

Adam's own grin vanished when he realized that he would probably swallow battery acid if Julie offered it to him with that smile.

"It's just Mr. Tibbles," he explained. "It sounds like someone's pet cat. I was thinking that when Ms. McKay was all like **_"_ _Oh, Mr. Tibbles! Are you alright?"_**

Julie laughed, causing Adam's heart to skip a beat.

"He _does_ sound like a pet cat, doesn't he? Well, don't tell anyone else. If the guys hear about his cat name, they'll start saying that Tibbles is my dad or something."

"I won't," Adam declared, startling Julie – and himself – with his earnestness.

After years of bullying from within the Golden Trio, Adam had developed a sense of humor that could be cutting, and even ruthless at times. But the idea of anyone making fun of the angel-faced goalie who cleaned up after him, laughed at his jokes, and took his goofiness in stride had triggered a fiercely protective instinct within him. It was an instinct that he had only just noticed.

Although the intensity of the feeling scared him, he did not want to let go of it. It made him feel heroic, like he had conquered his past.

But even heroes and conquerors need levity, so he eventually changed the subject.

"Hey, what were you reading before I got here?" He asked, indicating Julie's book. "Is that the story about the evil talking dummy?"

"Slappy," she nodded with a grin.

The pair continued to talk _Goosebumps_ for the remainder of breakfast while more and more teammates trickled into the dining hall. Once Tibbles had noticed that all of Team USA had arrived, he called the group to attention, inviting the kids to gather around the board covered with the black cloth.

" **Ta-da!"** He enthused, seizing the cloth, and revealing the team photo on the cover of a Wheaties box.

The kids gasped and 'wow-ed' at the sight.

" **Hey, y'all,"** Dwayne drawled. **"That's us!"**

His teammates laughed while Tibbles simply shook his head.

" **Today, it's Wheaties boxes,"** the businessman declared. **"Tomorrow it's video games, action figures, lunch boxes…."** He looked over to Gordon before adding **"the** ** _sky_** **is the limit."**

The young coach nodded, his pale blue eyes glittering with excitement. Any doubts he may have had over how big the stage really was were extinguished as he heard Tibbles list off the considerable advertising possibilities. Not only did he stand to make more money than he ever had practicing law, but he would achieve _fame_ as well.

" **Now…"** Tibbles continued. **"Just to make sure everyone knows who you are, try on one of these!"** He unfurled a spiffy new red-white-and-blue jersey with the word 'Hendrix' on the upper sleeves.

The kids responded with more impressed gasps.

" **Brought to you by those wonderful people at Hendrix for all of your hockey needs,"** Tibbles added before tossing the jersey at Fulton. **"Fulton, here you go!"**

The defenseman caught the jersey as Tibbles invited the rest to grab their own from the box on the floor.

" **Here you go, Coach!"** Tibbles threw a special Bombay jersey at Gordon.

" **It's nice, Coach,"** Charlie offered as Gordon inspected it. **"But we're Ducks. This stuff says 'Hendrix' all over it."**

" **Well yeah, they're our sponsors, Charlie."**

" **So what? Can't we be USA Ducks? Or at least keep our own colors,"** the 12-year old suggested.

" **It's business stuff, Charlie,"** Gordon gave his captain a reassuring pat on the arm as he stood up. **"Don't worry about it."**

Ms. McKay had observed this brief exchange and was made uncomfortable by it. The young academic had little interest in sports, and even less in business. She only hoped that Coach Bombay was not losing touch with what really mattered.

* * *

Adam seldom went anywhere near Julie for the next several days; Dean Portman had been too close to the goalie for the forward's comfort. The Chicago-born defenseman always managed to stay close to Julie, and had even used his budding friendship with Fulton to his advantage by having him sit at Julie's other side, preventing Adam from taking either spot next to her at meals.

Tutoring sessions with Ms. McKay had gone much the same way. On the one occasion that Adam actually managed to sit next to her, the lesson involved ancient mythology and astrology. When the lecture broke down into an argument among the Ducks over who had the best sign, Adam revealed that he was a Sagittarius.

"Really?" Julie asked. "I'm a Leo, so I guess that means we're gonna get married or something."

Adam laughed entirely too hard at that joke, making an awkward snort as result. Embarrassed by his reaction, he did not breathe another word to her.

As he took his window seat on the plane bound for Los Angeles, he actually felt that his lack of contact with Julie might have bween for the best. He had no clue what to say to her, and was amazed that he had been able to say as much as he had up to that point.

This feeling was extinguished the instant he heard her voice.

"Hey, stranger," she called to him with a smile, taking her seat by the aisle.

He knew that he was grinning like an idiot, but try as he did, he was unable to wipe the massive smile off his face.

"Hey there," he replied.

The goalie breathed-in, enjoying the smells of cinnamon and clove that reminded her so much of her father – whom she idolized.

Before either of them could say anything else, a musk that had become even more familiar to Julie over the past couple weeks came into range. It smelled like a clumsy attempt to mask the scent of sweaty old socks with a car air freshener…after a bath in used dishwater.

"Wassup?" Portman called out. "Ya mind, Jules? You're in my way."

Julie nodded and stood up in the aisle, allowing Portman access to the middle seat.

 _Of course,_ Adam groaned internally. _And what's with 'Jules?' Her name's 'Julie.' Doesn't he know that she hates nicknames? God, what a moron._

"Hey, Dean," Adam set aside his internal curses and greeted the defenseman politely.

"Yo, Banksie!" Portman elbowed Adam with a grin.

The forward's fist clenched. If Julie disliked being 'the Cat,' Adam absolutely _loathed_ 'Banksie.' Not only did it sound stupid, but the tag was originally dreamt up by Jake McGill quite deliberately as an insult. Portman had no way of knowing that, but Adam could not help but hold it against him. And all of Portman's time with Julie certainly did little to help his case.

As Adam observed Fulton take the middle seat in the row directly ahead, he wondered who the genius was who decided to place the team's two biggest players in middle seats. It pretty much guaranteed that six people, including the massive defensemen themselves, would be uncomfortable.

"Dude!" Fulton extended a clenched fist toward Portman, who duly bumped it.

"We can't sit next to each other, but I guess this is the next best thing," Portman replied.

 _Oh absolutely,_ Adam agreed sarcastically. _And why do these guys always yell? They're standing right next to each other. Do they think everyone's deaf?_

Eventually, the plane took off and several minutes later, the pilot switched off the 'seatbelt' light. Portman had been listening to his Walkman – along with Adam and Julie, who were made involuntary listeners by the loud volume – when he unfastened his seatbelt and leaned forward to talk to Fulton.

The _Meathead Dialect_ was an unfamiliar one to Adam, despite how loud and clear the intonations were. Portman and Fulton were loud guys in conversation anyway, but Portman in particular felt the need to practically shout over the headphones that were resting on his neck.

 _Why can't he just turn the volume down, honestly?!_ An exasperated Julie thought as she tried in vain to focus on her _Nancy Drew_ novel.

The goalie looked over to Adam who was poring over his copy of _The Hockey News,_ with the magazine resting on a fold-out tray. The center had been resting both of his hands against his forehead and looked stressed. She had a fairly good guess why.

"Hey, what was that for?!" Portman demanded after Julie yanked the headphones out of the Walkman, causing the device to go to 'mute.'

"Talk to Fulton, or listen to your tape," the goalie instructed the defenseman.

Portman was about to protest, but thought better of it. He offered Julie a contrite puppy dog smile that she found impossible to resist.

"You got it, sweetie," he set his tape player down in the slim compartment on the back of the seat ahead. "Fulton and I will keep it down, won't we, Fult?"

"You bet."

Julie nodded, willing to let the 'sweetie' thing slide. She was just grateful to be able to hear herself think.

Adam, on the other hand, felt a strong urge to remind Portman what the goalie's name really was; but he suppressed it. If Julie did not mind enough to speak up, Adam was not about to risk a punch-up with another teammate before they even began the tournament. The center turned his attention back to his hockey magazine. Despite Julie's presence nearby, he was not tempted to look up for the rest of the flight.

At least that was the impression that he hoped to create.

Every once in a while, Julie would look up from her _Nancy Drew_ with a slightly rueful smile as she observed Adam being totally engrossed in his magazine. She had thought – if they had not been separated by their enormous teammates – that maybe she could get a chance to know Adam better. But she doubted that she could compete with anything hockey-related for his attention.

She let out a loud sigh, prompting Adam to look up from his magazine. Embarrassed, Julie dove back into her novel without saying a word.

* * *

After landing at LAX and getting settled into their UCLA dormitory, Team USA took to the ice against 10th-seeded Trinidad. The tiny Caribbean island nation had made an improbable run to qualify for the games, and the boys in tie-dye seemed happy just to be there. Trinidad's only goal served as a cause for festive celebration, with their fans dancing in the stands to the sounds of island music.

Apart from the momentary carelessness that had resulted in the Trinidad goal, the only other thing that went wrong for Team USA came late in the 3rd when Jesse lost his temper after taking a hard check. Feisty Number 9 retaliated furiously, and landed in the penalty box for his troubles. There, a stout African-American boy proceeded to heckle him.

But even out of this setback came a positive development.

The bruising combination of Fulton and Portman smashed their opponents and negated Trinidad's man-advantage. As Don Tibbles watched the defensive tandem kill the Trinidad power play, the marketing man coined the term 'the Bash Brothers.' The tag would end up sticking to the pair of defensemen years after the Junior Goodwill Games.

Despite outperforming Goldberg in practice, Julie had been relegated to the bench, as Gordon chose to stick with the goalie that he knew.

Unfortunately for the New Englander, Team USA's dominating 9-1 performance over Trinidad helped to solidify Goldberg's position as the starter, and made it unlikely for her to get minutes any time soon.

* * *

Like any good marketing man, Tibbles knew the importance of timing, and the immediate aftermath of Team USA's 9-goal triumph was an excellent time to hold a press conference. He ordered Gordon to get the kids dressed as quickly as possible and out to the press pool at LA Coliseum, where they could be photographed hugging the Hendrix Bear while wearing their Hendrix-designed training jackets and Hendrix baseball caps behind a Hendrix podium.

No one ever accused Don Tibbles of being too subtle in his professional life.

With the photographs and Gordon's obligatory 'thank-you' remarks to Hendrix out of the way, the floor was opened to questioning from the small group of reporters that the media could spare from its relentless coverage of the OJ Simpson trial.

After taking a few softball questions about 'how does it feel,' and what not, Gordon was asked about Team USA's greatest threat to the Gold: the Vikings of Iceland.

" **How are you gonna handle them?"**

He was caught off guard for a moment, but quickly recovered.

" **With hard work,"** he answered. **"I think our team is ready to go up against the best in the world…."**

Sure enough, Coach Wolf 'the Dentist' Stansson led his gigantic players to the area just behind the press pool as Gordon had begun his answer. Unlike most of his boys, who had long blond hair, Stansson had dark hair that was slicked back in the fashion of an '80s super-villain. It may have been summer in Los Angeles, but the tall, strongly-built Icelandic coach and his players were all dressed from head-to-toe in black.

" **We're not worried about 'em,"** Gordon continued. **"Iceland may be tough, but we're Team USA and we're going all the way."**

His players immediately offered their agreement while Tibbles flashed two thumbs-up from the press pool.

" **Team USA's going down!"** Stansson's voice killed the applause. **"That's where you're going."**

Team USA and their fans in the press looked around, both confused and worried.

" **See you on the ice, Bombay!"** Stansson added as ushers moved to escort him off the premises.

Ken Wu had overheard Gordon refer to 'the Dentist,' and looked over at the menacing ex-pro in disbelief.

" **That guy's a** ** _dentist?"_**

" **That was his nickname,"** Charlie explained. **"He played for one year pro – punched out more teeth than goals. I heard he even punched-out his own coach."**

" **I heard they ran him out of the league _and_ the country,"** Julie volunteered as they watched Stansson being led away.

" **What happened to freedom of speech, huh? Isn't this America?"** The Dentist asked with a sardonic grin.

" **That's his team?"** Ken asked. **"Those guys are huge!"**

The diminutive USA forward was not exaggerating. Despite their youth, most of the Icelandic players were already around six feet tall, and had enough muscle to make them capable of giving even the Bash Brothers a very bad day.

Julie had been shaken by Iceland's arrival, but she figured that there was one person on her team who knew hockey well enough to de-mystify the Vikings. She turned and moved to join Adam, who was away from the fracas and staring out over the football field.

The center heard light footsteps approaching. He figured that it was Jesse trying to sneak-up on him.

"I just don't get it, Jesse," Adam began, not bothering to turn around. "I don't get why a sport as boring as football is so popular."

"Ha! You and me both," Julie agreed.

Adam whipped around, his eyes wide in shock.

"Oh, it's you," his voice cracked.

"Um…are you disappointed?"

"No, no," he insisted, firming up his voice. "What's up?"

"We'll probably be going back to the dorms soon," she announced. "Wanna walk with me?"

"Sure!"

 _Stupid voice. Stop cracking!_

"I mean, _sure,"_ he added more smoothly as they began the short walk to rejoin their team.

"So what's up with that Dentist guy?" Julie asked. "Should we really worry about him?"

Adam shrugged.

"I wouldn't want to be alone with him and a hockey stick," he confessed. "But I don't think that'll ever happen, so why worry about it?"

"I guess," she giggled nervously. "Those guys are monsters though!"

"So were the Hawks," he replied. _In more ways than one._ "But we beat them anyway. With the right preparation and the right attitude, we can beat anyone. That's what being a Duck is all about."

Julie was familiar with the Ducks, but she had heard only vague bits and pieces about their arch-rival Hawks. If Iceland shared weaknesses with the Hawks, then those weaknesses could be exploited, so she pressed the center for more information.

"What were the Hawks like?"

Adam's eyes widened again. He had never expected to talk to her about his experience with the Hawks, though it was now obvious that he should have. His little chats with Julie had, to this point, been the most exciting parts of his Team USA experience, and he did not want to risk losing them by revealing his bullying past to her. And with the rest of their teammates close by, the last thing that Adam wanted was to trigger any latent suspicions of mixed loyalty with a bit of Hawk talk.

Fortunately, an unlikely source came to his rescue.

"Hey – what's up, Babe?!" Portman called out, wrapping a possessive arm around Julie's shoulders in a half-hug greeting as she approached with Adam.

Adam was so grateful for the reprieve that he even forgave Portman for calling Julie 'Babe.'

"Not much," Julie replied, slipping out of Portman's grasp. "Adam was just explaining to me how he was gonna kick Team Iceland's sorry butts all over the arena."

"No, _I'm_ gonna kick Iceland's sorry butt," Portman protested with more vehemence than he intended.

"Relax," Adam offered. "There'll be plenty of Icelandic butts to go around."

At that, Julie burst into laughter.

"I can't believe how funny you are," she declared, grasping Adam's forearm.

The sight prompted a spike of jealousy in Portman.

"Yo, Fulton!" He called to his new buddy. "Wait-up, bro!"

As Julie watched the Chicago-born defenseman take his leave, her grin gave way to a worried frown.

"Do you think he's mad at me?" She asked Adam.

 _Who could ever be mad at you?_ He honestly wondered.

"Maybe you should go talk to him."

"You're right," Julie agreed. "See ya later, Adam!"

As he watched Julie leave his side, Adam kicked himself for sending her back to Portman. Would it really have been so hard to say "Nah, Portman's fine, don't worry?" He could have easily kept Julie all to himself if he had. But Julie inspired a quality that Adam had long recognized as a fatal weakness: niceness.

He shuddered as he was reminded of something that Paul Larson had told him years earlier: _"Nice guys always finish last."_

But that made him think about his former friend's tough luck. Even if Paul Larson had not quite finished last, he always seemed to finish awfully close to it.

"Does that mean that Larson is really a nice guy, then?" Adam wondered aloud.

"Talkin' to yourself again, Cake Eater?"

Adam turned to discover that Jesse had joined him.

"It's the only way that I can be guarenteed intelligent conversation," the ex-Hawk deadpanned.

"I suppose I walked right into that one," Jesse chuckled. "Anyway, the bus is leavin', and we can't go without our MVP."

Adam smiled and got into step with his former enemy. Julie had ended up sitting next to Portman during the ride back to the dormitory, but Adam forgot all about that as he swapped jokes and quips with the one Duck whose humor and sarcasm could truly rival his own. As the bus approached the campus, Adam turned the conversation in a more philosophical direction.

"Hey, Jesse – do you think nice guys always finish last?"

The old D5er shrugged.

"If that's true, then I guess somebody planted 'nice guy' chips into the Hawks' brains before we played them in the championship."

"Heh, good point."

Looking over at Julie and Portman, Adam took comfort in Jesse's words, even while knowing that part of him would never hesitate to sabotage Portman's chances with a 'nice guy' brain chip if such a thing actually existed.


	16. The High Life

**Chapter Sixteen: The High Life**

After dropping off his players at the dorms, Gordon went for a ride with Tibbles that afternoon. The marketing man had explained to his front man that he wanted to thank Gordon for his triumph over Trinidad; he was eager to keep the young coach happy. The two men enjoyed the warm California breeze with the top down in a blue Mercedes convertible as Tibbles drove along the ocean, pointing out celebrity houses to a bedazzled Gordon.

"Arnold Schwarzenegger likes to walk his dog around here," the businessman announced as they continued along a secluded road lined with palm trees.

"Cool," Gordon managed.

He was trying his best to be nonchalant, but being in such proximity to all of that money and fame was hard to play down. The ex-lawyer had a feeling that he was being worked, so he got to business as they approached a white mansion.

" **Tibbles, what are we doing here in Malibu?"**

" **This is your new place, man,"** Tibbles explained, parking the convertible on the side of the street. **"It's our way of saying 'Thank you.' You take care of Hendrix, Hendrix is gonna take care of you."**

Gordon's eyes widened at the sight of his impressive new digs as he climbed out of the car.

" **I can't help but feel guilty,"** he confessed. **"I mean, shouldn't I be closer to the team?"**

Tibbles gave a slight smile as he unlocked the front door and led Gordon inside, but he did not breathe a word. The seasoned business executive had worked enough people over the years to know that the most effective pitches allowed the goods to do most of the talking.

And an oceanside party mansion could say an awful lot.

" **Whoa,"** Gordon gasped, his eyes wandering across the spacious living room that was brilliantly lit by huge windows that looked out to the Pacific.

Art-deco was all the rage in interior design, and the white walls, hardwood floors, black granite countertops, and black leather sofas were deeply inviting to the young man who had been expecting to spend the next several weeks in a dorm room down the hall from a bunch of 12 and 13-year olds.

" **You know,"** he began, looking out at the ocean-side deck behind the living room, **"I'm sure they don't need me 24 hours a day. I'm sure they're just fine in the dorms."**

Tibbles nodded.

"Of course they are," he agreed. "Michelle's not there just for tutoring."

The marketing man looked over his casually-dressed frontman in his cream-colored sport coat and blue jeans. Not a bad look, but Tibbles figured that they could do better.

"You know, Gordon, Hendrix has a line of business clothing. And I think you're just the guy to promote it."

Gordon chuckled at the idea.

"What, like model?"

"Oh, I wouldn't let you go in front of all those cameras by yourself. Lots of pretty girls will be there to keep you company."

Gordon's bemused expression gave way to a wide grin.

"Just take care of business against Italy, and we'll have you out there putting Pat Riley to shame in a heartbeat," Tibbles declared, alluding to the dapper head coach of the glamorous '80s Lakers.

"You got it!"

* * *

Back at the hot, sticky dorms, Julie lounged on her bed in red gym shorts and a white Team USA T-shirt. A couple of oscillating fans on full blast, along with an open window prevented the Mainer from dissolving in the California summer – but only just.

The room that she had been given to share with Connie was larger than anything that the boys had, but it was on the sunny side of the building, and its heat was extra punishing. Tibbles had excitedly sold the girls on the size of their room, leading Julie to wonder if the marketing man ever stopped selling, but both girls happily agreed to the arrangement. It was only now that they were experiencing 'buyers' remorse.

As Julie tried to get into _The Horror at Camp Jellyjam,_ she heard a knock on the door.

"That'll be for me," Connie announced, shooting up from her own bed before opening the door.

"Hey, beautiful," Guy greeted her with a kiss hello at the threshold.

"I guess I'll just get going then," Julie declared with a faint note of disgust.

She figured that if she didn't get going, Connie and Guy would continue to engage in tonsil hockey in front of her.

 _So gross. Boys are gross. And smelly. Then they grow up and become hairy…and still smelly and gross._

Julie figured that Adam was neither gross nor smelly, but the goalie could not quite wrap her mind around the dating concept. She had plenty of guy friends who she would like to know better _as friends_ , but anything more just seemed unhygienic. With the onset of puberty came sex ed classes at school, where teachers did their best to discourage and demonize the impulses that the children were beginning to feel.

One image that stuck with Julie was the view of a kiss from inside the mouth.

 _Ick. I'm never doing that!_

Julie slid on her blue flip-flops, then made her way to the door before looking back at the happy couple that had taken seats on Connie's bed.

"Just be out of here by ten, alright Guy? I'd like to get some sleep."

"You got it, Julie."

The goalie nodded, then stepped into the hall. She could hear the sounds of heavy metal coming from the room that the Bash Brothers shared, so she was surprised to discover the two defensemen, in loose tank tops and cargo shorts, playing foosball in the common room.

 _Do they ever turn off their stereos?_

The music was faint, but still within hearing range even in the square-shaped common room that boasted two beat-up sofas, two vending machines – one for soda and one for snacks – a foosball table, and a TV whose cable was out for the summer. Some VHS tape had gotten stuck in the VCR, rendering the TV useless.

"Oh!" Portman raised his arms in triumph as he sent another game-winning goal past Fulton's row of pretend soccer players. "You're makin' this too easy, Fult."

"Yeah? Let's see if you can win without spinning all of your players all the time," the old Duck shot back.

"Heh, excuses are like assholes. They all stink and everyone's got 'em."

At that, Julie giggled as she took a seat on one of the sofas. She'd have to remember that one.

Portman's brown eyes followed the sound and watched the goalie get settled-in with her book. He couldn't for the life of him understand how or why someone could spend so much time reading when there was so much to do and explore. To Portman, it seemed like Julie was missing out on far too much of what life had to offer.

It was only natural for him to do what he could to help his pretty teammate.

"Sup, Jules?"

"Hey, Portman," she looked up from her novel. "Hey, Fulton."

"Cat," the old Duck nodded.

Julie rolled her eyes, but wouldn't hold it against Fulton.

"Wanna try your luck, Jules?" Portman gestured toward the foosball table. "Fulton's too easy – I need a challenge."

"Nah, you guys go ahead though," she replied without looking up from her book. "I just need a place to chill for a while. Guy's visiting Connie right now."

"Sounds like someone needs some fresh air," Portman declared. "Wanna go for a walk around the campus?"

Julie shrugged. She imagined that most of the buildings were closed for the summer, and that there was little to see; but getting out of the hot, stuffy dormitory sounded like a good idea.

"Sure, why not?"

As she set her book down and got to her feet, Portman could not hide his surprise. The goalie had been such a tough nut to crack during their time in Minnesota, but here she was readily agreeing to go out with him. Not that he was about to complain.

"Cool, let's do this," he grinned before turning to Fulton, indicating the hallway to their room with his head.

Portman's Bash Brother immediately picked up the cue.

"See ya guys later."

Julie frowned.

"You're not coming with us?"

Fulton knew that his Bash Brother had been crushing hard on Julie, so he was eager to give Portman the privacy that he needed in order to do his thing.

"Nah," he replied. "I think I'll go bug Averman and Goldberg. They've probably got some Pog tournament that I can referee."

"Later, dude," Portman extended a fist, which Fulton promptly bumped.

"Later, guys," Fulton replied before disappearing down the hall.

Portman turned back to face Julie.

"Well, let's go," he grinned again, ushering the goalie outside with his arm around her shoulders.

* * *

"Go fish," Adam instructed Jesse, looking up from his deck of cards.

The old D5er grunted in frustration.

"Tonight's just not my night."

The pair of forwards were killing time in their room by playing cards from opposite ends of one of the desks. As Jesse drew another card from the pile, there was a knock at the door.

"I'll get that," Adam offered, setting his cards facedown on the desk. "No peeking."

The skin on the center's legs made a peeling sound as he got up from the wooden desk chair that he had been sitting on. For all of the money being thrown around at the Goodwill Games, no one had thought to house Team USA in air-conditioned facilities. While visiting teams from around the world got to stay in comfortable hotels, Team USA got to sweat it out in one of UCLA's oldest and most spartan dormitories. Goldberg had made a crack about asbestos and lead paint when they first arrived, but the ancient building did not make it seem like much of a joke.

"Oh, hey guys," Adam greeted Charlie and Fulton at the threshold. "What's up?"

Charlie shrugged.

"Coach is out somewhere, and Fulton has had about all that he can take of high-stakes Pogs," he replied. "We figured we'd see what you and Jesse were up to."

Adam opened the door wider to allow his visitors inside.

"Just playing go-fish."

"Oh?" Charlie asked, stepping inside. "I've got some playing chips that I can bring over if you guys wanna play poker."

"Cool, let's play," Adam replied, prompting Charlie to turn and exit to fetch the chips.

"I'll just grab a couple more chairs," Fulton volunteered.

"I'll help," Adam offered, joining the burly defenseman in the hall. "Not hanging out with Portman tonight?"

"Nah, he's out with Julie."

Adam froze as his heart sunk.

"Uh, you okay, man?" Fulton stopped, flashing a worried look at the forward.

"Oh, yeah – of course," Adam insisted. "Come on, let's grab the chairs."

Fulton nodded, and the pair soon arrived at their rather messy destination which still had loud metal playing on the boombox, making conversation impossible. This fact did not bother Adam, however. He had little to say in general, and even less to say on this occasion, having learned that Julie had gone out on what sounded like a date. With _Portman,_ no less.

The preppy center and gritty defenseman came from different worlds, and seemed destined to clash just going on the superficial differences. But Adam tried to push back against the spite he had been feeling toward Portman. The ex-Hawk knew that he had no right to be jealous. He and Julie were not an item, and Adam told himself that he had no right to object to Julie and Portman being one.

And while Portman's loud and brash exterior grated on Adam , the ex-Hawk could not deny that the Bash Brother had proven himself as a loyal and dependable teammate.

"Up we go," Fulton grabbed a wooden desk chair identical to the ones in Adam's room.

Adam nodded, then grabbed the other chair before following Fulton back into the hallway.

As Adam followed the Bash Brother, he privately vowed not to get into it with the _other_ Bash Brother over Julie.

Even if that felt a bit like telling a forest fire not to burn.

Fulton led the way into Adam's room, setting his chair down by the desk that Charlie and Jesse were seated at.

"There's nothing wrong with giving Coach space," Jesse advised Charlie. "He's all grown-up now."

Charlie laughed at his old friend's unusually theraputic tone. Jesse had listened to Charlie's complaints about Bombay's disappearance with the calmness and patience of a therapist, and Charlie was beginning to see how clingy and ridiculous he had been as of late. It felt good to hang out with his teammates, instead of his coach. An evening of Texas Hold 'em was just what the doctor ordered, and the Captain could not wipe the thin, but noticeable grin off his face as he dealt the cards. They would not be playing for money, merely bragging rights.

Adam liked his chances. Paul Larson was a master of deception, and in this one instance, Adam was grateful for what he had learned from his former friend.

As the ex-Hawk looked at his hand, this little gathering of newer teammates felt like a bittersweet experience. He loved these moments where he could be just one of the guys; but these games, these moments of friendship invariably led to Hawk comparisons. The Golden Trio had remained the standard by which Adam measured friendship, even two years on.

This realization reminded him how fickle and inconstant friendship could be, so he decided to go easy on his teammates and let one of them win.

As result, Jesse abandoned his therapist pretensions and was back to his trash-talking old self.

"Dang, Cake Eater – let's play for money next time. You'll make me a rich man!"

"Be careful what you wish for."

Adam's tone startled Jesse, whose brown eyes widened in worry.

"Money ain't all that it's cracked up to be," Adam offered with a wafer-thin smile.

Jesse laughed, relieved that he hadn't offended his new best friend.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as Portman and Julie began their walk back from the student union, toward the dormitory. It was still close to 80 degrees, despite the onset of the evening, but even this toasty temperature provided much-appreciated relief from the sweltering dorm and its stale air. The frosted smoothies that Portman and Julie had enjoyed also helped a great deal.

A university campus is never completely dead, but UCLA was quiet in the middle of the summer. Only the food court and a couple of stores in the student union had even been open, but that was enough.

Julie had really enjoyed herself, and found Portman to be a funny and surprisingly considerate companion once he started using his 'indoor voice.' The goalie had been shocked by the defenseman's attentiveness, complete with door-holding, seat-pushing and extra napkins. And no sign of 'babe,' or 'sweetie.'

As they strolled along the deserted walkway, Portman noticed a hill off to the side between the student union and the dorms. At once, he challenged the goalie to a race to the top.

Julie grinned at the suggestion, but remembered her flip-flops.

"I can't really race in these things," she explained, looking down at her feet.

For the first time during their little outing, Portman's mischievous grin flashed across his face. He had been a gentleman the entire evening. Now, it was the bad boy's turn to come out and play.

"No matter," he declared.

Without breathing another word, the defenseman scooped-up the goalie with one arm wrapped behind her knees and the other around her back. Julie protested, but giggled and wrapped her arms around Portman's neck to secure herself to her teammate.

"Don't drop me!"

"Heh, you worry too much."

And with that, Portman charged full speed up the hill with Julie clinging to his neck – her giggles a mixture of amusement and nervousness. If Adam Banks was the most skilled player on the team, Portman was easily the most athletic; and the defenseman's considerable strength and speed made short work of the sprint. Once he reached the top of the hill, he gently set Julie down on her feet, surprising her with his lightness of touch.

But she punched his chest anyway.

"Jerk."

Portman could tell from the grin that lit up Julie's flushed cheeks that she had enjoyed the ride, despite her protests. But he decided to play along, so he put on his contrite puppy-dog eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Julie folded her arms, making a mock-indignant frown.

"Oh yeah, what are you gonna do to make it up to me?"

"Show you the skyline of LA?" Portman gestured toward the city.

The hill had a surprisingly good view, with the iconic Hollywood sign clear as day.

"I guess I can forgive you," she smiled again.

Portman returned the grin as he sat down on the grass. He invited her to join him by patting the space next to him.

"But we don't have a blanket, or towel or anything," she protested.

He chuckled.

"Again, you worry too much. I don't think the guys will bust on you for having a grass stain on your gym shorts."

 _Good point, I guess._

She shrugged and sat down next to the defenseman.

The pair talked for the next several minutes about the tournament. Italy was their next opponent, and Julie could not hide her frustration over her lack of playing time against Trinidad. Given how lopsided Game 1 had been, she worried that Goldberg had locked-up the starting spot, and that she would never get her chance.

"I mean, I wanted to show the world what I can do," she declared sadly. "All my life I've been told that I can't play with the boys – I've had to prove myself all the time. But now I won't even get a _chance_ to prove myself."

"Hey, hey," Portman wrapped a long, consoling arm around the goalie, who in turn rested her forehead against his chest as he continued.

"Just talk to Bombay. He seems like a nice guy, and he wants to win as badly as any of us."

"I will," she replied, looking up with a slight smile.

It felt good to vent her frustration. She was so used to being the model teammate: never complaining, never rocking the boat, and never creating drama. Her worries had made her feel like she was being selfish, but Portman's understanding came as a relief. Things were looking up already.

Then, as the Bash Brother was wont to do, he went too far.

"What are you doing?!" Julie demanded, pushing Portman off of her.

Portman's eyes, which had been closed in anticipation of a kiss, opened wide – revealing surprise, and some hurt.

"Um…I thought you wanted it."

The loud defenseman had never spoken so softly in his life.

"Don't be gross," Julie shot back, folding her arms for good measure.

Only this time, she wasn't kidding around.

"Sorry," he said softly.

"It's okay," she replied. "Just don't try that again."

"Sure."

The pair remained seated next to each other, but were no longer touching. Several long, quiet, and uncomfortable minutes passed before Julie spoke again.

"We probably should head back," she suggested, standing back up. "You know…before it gets really dark."

Portman nodded and got up, following the goalie back to the dorms while taking care to stay a few paces behind.

As the dormitory came into view, Julie cursed herself for hurting Portman. The attempted kiss had come as a huge surprise to her, and she was ill-equipped to handle it. She only hoped that the awkward event wouldn't adversely affect Portman's game, or their team by extension. Now more than ever, the goalie was desperate to get back between the pipes, both to concentrate her mind on something other than _this,_ and to make up for any difficulty she may have created for her team.

* * *

After a restful night's sleep at the ocean-side mansion, Gordon confidently predicted victory against Italy at the pre-game presser. He felt for the first time that the knee injury that had robbed him of a chance to play in the NHL was, in fact, a blessing in disguise. He was well-paid, living spectacularly, and was basking in the media spotlight in sunny Los Angeles.

He had been so lost in these happy thoughts that he failed to notice the tall blonde Icelandic trainer in the hallway, and bumped right into her.

" **Oh, I'm sorry,"** she offered in accented English.

" **Sorry,"** Gordon said simultaneously, his eyes widening as he snapped back into reality and took in the sight of his new acquaintance.

She was a classic Nordic beauty, with long blonde hair, silvery blue eyes, porcelain skin and flawless bone structure.

" **Nah, it was my fault, I was clumsy,"** the trainer explained. She soon realized who she was dealing with. **"You're Coach Bombay!"**

" **That's right."**

" **You play well."**

" **Uh, thank you."**

 _Does she know me from the Minors?_

" **I mean _your team_ plays well,"** she clarified.

Gordon nodded, disappointed that he wasn't yet the big shot that he hoped to become. But he brushed that off.

" **I know what you meant. So who are you?"**

" **I'm the trainer for the Iceland team. My name is Marr…"**

She was cut off by some rather angry-sounding Icelandic from the mouth of Wolf Stansson. The Icelandic coach ordered the trainer to move along, then squared up against his shorter rival. With his square face and severe countenance, 'the Dentist' could easily pass for one of the men in Paul Larson's family.

Gordon raised his eyebrows at the sight of his aggressively menacing rival.

" **Well, you've got a way with the ladies,"** the American coach teased his humorless Icelandic counterpart. **"We haven't formally met, I'm Gordon Bombay, Coach of Team USA."**

" **I know your position, I know you,"** Stansson deadpanned.

The Icelander's lispy voice seemed a bit too high-pitched for a man his stature, and combined with his slicked back hair, it gave Gordon the impression of a guy who was trying too hard to imitate Hannibal Lecter. It was difficult for the American to take such a man seriously.

" **Yeah, but do you know the** ** _real_** **me?"** Gordon teased.

The dour Icelander cracked a hint of a smile.

" **Full of confidence…cocky…** ** _American._** **I like that. It'll make our triumph even more enjoyable."**

" **Triumph? Lighten up a little bit. We're all just here to have a little bit of…"**

"… **fun, right? Don't you worry. We will. We will."**

The tall Icelander turned on his heel, and began to walk away, pantomiming a 'parting shot' with his index finger and thumb as he left.

* * *

Team USA had been dominating Italy 6-0, and Goldberg's confidence was soaring as result.

" **Have no fear, Goldberg is here!"** The starting goalie exclaimed as he caught a shot from an Italian forward named D'Agostino.

But the goalie didn't stop there.

" **What's the matter,** ** _paisan?_** **Meatballs slowin' ya down? Hey, uh…how do you say in Italiano,** ** _wussy?"_**

D'Agostino moved to take a swing at the trash-talking goalie, but a referee swooped-in and prevented a brawl by separating the players.

" **Goldberg!"** Gordon chided from the USA bench.

" **What'd I say?"** Goldberg asked incredulously.

USA triumphed 11-0, earning applause even from the stocky local boy named Russ Tyler who had heckled Jesse during the Trinidad game.

* * *

Tibbles whisked Gordon away to a photo shoot immediately after Team USA's shutout of Italy. The marketing executive had made good on his promise to land Gordon a modeling gig, complete with fancy suits that he got to keep, and beautiful women on his arm. Just when Gordon thought that things could not possibly get better, Tibbles drove him to the company mansion he had been staying at – where a star-studded cocktail party was already in full swing.

Gordon got to rub elbows with Olympic greats Greg Louganis and Kristy Yamaguchi, among other celebrities. The hockey coach was so full of himself that he confidently peddled his idea of an 'Air Bombay Loafer' to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. The Lakers legend was skeptical about the marketability of Gordon's idea, but Gordon was confident that the world was full of kids who wanted to be just like him.

After all, who wouldn't want what Gordon Bombay had?

* * *

During the team's day off, Julie had worked out what she would say to Coach Bombay, while Goldberg celebrated the victory over Italy by hitting-up Rodeo Drive with Averman, Jesse and Dwayne. While the mischievous starting goalie posed as the nephew of Aaron Spelling, the soft-spoken backup goalie braced herself for an uncomfortable meeting with her coach.

Julie Gaffney may have been quiet, but she was a competitor at heart. Competitors never ask for things, they earn them. Everything about going to her coach and begging for playing time just felt wrong to her, but she didn't know what else to do. She waited patiently across Bombay's desk in the UCLA Athletics Department as her coach finished a phone call – another modeling gig, only this time involving his Air Bombay Loafer.

" **Well, we'll talk about it over dinner,"** Gordon offered before hanging up and taking his seat across from Julie. **"What's up?"**

" **I want to play,"** she declared firmly. **"When am I gonna get my chance?"**

" **Well Julie, Goldberg's on a hot streak. I gotta stick with him as long as we're winning."**

" **I understand,"** she nodded. **"But I left my team in Maine to show the world what I can do."**

" **Just give it time,"** he assured her. **"You** ** _will_** **show the world, I promise! Okay?"**

Julie smiled, relieved that she had secured a commitment from her coach – even if it had been a bit lacking in specifics.

" **Alright, now get outta here,"** Gordon said with a playful grin.

With that, Julie got up and took her leave. She had been preparing for a long speech and a rigorous back-and-forth where she would have to make her case like a lawyer, but the exchange ended up being brief. Gordon had things to do, and people to meet; so he had been keen to keep the conversation with his back-up goalie to the point. Julie hoped that her new coach would prove to be a man of his word.

At this point, it was all that she could do.

* * *

Later that night, Portman decided to work off his Julie disappointment by hitting the town with Fulton after curfew. The two defensemen had formed a strong bond both on and off the ice, and Portman privately wished that the tournament would never end. He was not looking forward to returning to a Fulton-free home in Chicago, and as the pair of young teenage guys flirted with older teenage girls along the streets of LA, Portman felt like he had won back his swagger.

But the sight of Coach Bombay on a date with the leggy Icelandic trainer quickly put a damper on the spirits of both Bash Brothers.

" **Look at this!"** Portman exclaimed. **"She's an Iceland chick. What's he doing with her? Great coach we've got!"**

Portman stomped off while Fulton sadly observed his old coach with the enemy trainer. Although Team USA had gotten off to an undefeated start in the tournament, Fulton couldn't shake the feeling that their coach had been getting distracted – a bit too Hollywood. The Original Duck let out a disappointed sigh before moving to catch-up to Portman.


	17. A Slap in the Face

**Chapter Seventeen: A Slap in the Face**

"Hey, Iceman!" McGill greeted Larson at his front door.

The forward's enthusiasm gave way to apprehension as he took in the sight of Larson's big, black Labrador retriever, Shadow, calmly waiting at his master's heel.

"Jake," Larson nodded shortly.

Noticing his friend's discomfort, the defenseman grinned slightly.

"Don't worry. Shadow is very well-behaved."

McGill swallowed nervously. The big, brash forward was terrified of dogs – even the most docile ones.

"He won't act out," Larson assured McGill. "Not unless you provoke him, of course," the defenseman added in a hushed tone.

"Sure, sure," McGill opened the door wider to allow his guests inside. "Well, make yourself comfortable."

Larson nodded as he walked his dog into McGill's foyer. After unhooking the leash from the collar, Larson led the way to McGill's living room with Shadow following behind. Like a true master of his dog, Larson _always_ preceded Shadow and never allowed the dog to lead him anywhere. The master/pet relationship seemed like the most natural sort of relationship to the defenseman, and it was easily his favorite — although he supposed that predator/prey was equally natural. He certainly had difficulty grasping the nature of any other type of relationship.

"What's up, Paul?" Scott Stevens called from McGill's living room.

The platinum-haired Hawk forward had been sitting on the couch next to Jason Brown, an equally blond Hawk defenseman.

"Not much," Larson replied, scanning the room.

In addition to a red leather chesterfield in the center of the room behind a coffee table, there were two matching armchairs placed across from each other off either side of the couch. Stevens and Brown had been sitting on the couch, while Kevin Wise, the Hawk goalie, had been sitting on one the armchairs. All of them had been waiting for the hockey game to start.

"How are you, Kevin?" Larson asked the solidly-built goalie.

"Not bad, you?" Wise boomed back in a baritone that had developed early and completely.

"Peachy," Larson lied, taking a seat on the matching red armchair opposite Wise.

Larson was annoyed that he had to share McGill's company, even if it was with fellow Hawk alumni. His natural reticence was not the only reason why the defenseman preferred one-on-one contact. He had noticed that people became easier to control when they were kept separate. Rumors, both helpful and hurtful, spread more easily when there were fewer people around to contradict them. A good word for one friend seemed more sincere, and less like brown-nosing if that particular friend was not around to hear those words.

And a reputation was easier to destroy when the victim wasn't around to plead his case.

Best of all, Larson would not have to compete with anyone to influence McGill's mind. He liked being the lone source of information in his social circle, and he found the divide-and-rule strategy to be the easiest and most reliable way of keeping people in their place. He only needed to recall Adam's departure from the Hawks to remind him of the necessity of keeping everyone in their place. Had the star center stayed put, the unfortunate series of events that followed never would have occurred, and the Golden Trio would have remained intact.

But McGill had insisted on having a little party with other Hawks: the small group from his Pee Wee team that could tolerate his presence for more than 15 consecutive minutes off the ice. So Larson brought Shadow along as a way to remind McGill who was in charge. The defenseman knew how terrified McGill was of dogs, and occasionally used Shadow to get at McGill whenever the forward... _got out of place._

Of course, it was all for McGill's own good, as Larson liked to remind himself. After all, it was a rough world. Everyone needed a bit of protection…a little domination.

Larson could hear McGill's distinctive gait pound into the living room.

 _His heels and knees will never make it to his 15th birthday,_ the defenseman thought as he observed his best friend carry a snack tray that was full of corn chips and a meaty dip. Shadow, who had been resting at Larson's feet, looked up at the intoxicating smell of beef, beans, grated cheese, and hot sauce.

Larson could feel the dog's tail begin to wag in excitement, but Shadow did not make a sound, or move to get up. He knew better than to act out without receiving expressed permission from his master.

Once McGill had set the tray down on the coffee table in front of the chesterfield, Larson discretely pinched Shadow, prompting the dog the jump and bark.

McGill gasped and fell backward onto the couch, landing on Stevens' lap and eliciting laughter all around.

 _Stupid dog. Why did Paul have to bring that monster here?_

Larson scratched the area behind Shadow's ears, just the way the dog liked it, under the pretext of calming him. The defenseman leaned in and whispered "good boy," assuring Shadow that his barking had served a purpose and was acceptable.

"Jake," Larson called McGill rose from the couch. "Would you be kind enough to fix Shadow a bowl of your delicious dip?"

"Tell that stupid mutt to get his own damn food."

Larson's dark eyes burned with rage. Not only had McGill defied him, but he disrespected Shadow – who was by far Larson's most loyal and reliable friend. The other Hawks had stopped laughing and were sitting in uncomfortable silence as Larson stared McGill down.

McGill stood up straight and returned Larson's glare. As much as he cared for his only real friend, McGill hated the little power games that the defenseman loved to play. He never understood why Larson felt the need to humiliate him around the others, especially given how kind, gentle and attentive Larson could be when they were alone. The forward had no way of knowing this, but Loving Larson and Bully Larson were personas that were used by the defenseman in a deliberately unpredictable way that was meant to keep McGill off-balance and under control.

 _For his own good, of course,_ Larson repeated to himself, maintaining an unblinking gaze on his insubordinate companion.

After what felt like a full minute, McGill finally relented.

"Fine," he sighed, turning to make his way back to the kitchen.

"And bring me a pop!" Larson bellowed from his chair.

The other Hawks, who had remained frozen in their seats, looked over to Larson.

The stoic defenseman finally cracked an easy smile.

"Go on, guys. Eat!"

He encouraged his friends to help themselves to the snack tray, and they quickly did so. Stevens made sure to grab a plate for Larson.

"Thank you, Scott," Larson offered an appreciative smile that made the blond forward feel like he was on top of the world.

Making the stolid defenseman grin was no easy task.

Larson was beginning to appreciate McGill's original act of defiance: inviting more people over than himself. The defenseman loved it when his friends knew their place and catered to him. He was in such a good mood that he decided to ease up on McGill, who approached him with a chilled can of cherry cola and a glass containing some ice – Larson's favorite. The defenseman took care to lean forward and stroke his docile pet to encourage Shadow to remain calm as McGill timidly approached.

"Thank you, Jake," Larson offered as he took the can and glass. "Don't forget Shadow's dip!"

"Right," McGill nodded, then disappeared into the kitchen as the big Iceland/USA showdown at the Junior Goodwill Games began on TV.

The old Hawks' enthusiasm for Team USA had been dampened by the presence of 'Little Duckies,' but they all had been looking forward to the game from a hockey standpoint. It promised to be an interesting match-up between the two best teams in the tournament.

Larson chuckled as he watched a tall, muscular boy in red-white-and-blue knock some black-clad Icelander flat on his butt immediately after the puck dropped. But Larson's eyes widened as he watched Dean Portman get ejected just 3 seconds into the game.

 _Tough refs._

At that point, it looked like Team USA had already found itself in a deep hole. Fulton appeared to be the only player on their roster who could match Iceland's physicality. The Vikings certainly weren't going to go easy on their opponents just because they were smaller. Once play resumed, Iceland immediately won possession and took it into USA's zone. Olaf Sandersson faked a shot, causing Goldberg to bite while Sandersson passed sideways to Gunnar Stahl.

" **Come and get it,"** Stahl taunted Goldberg before slapping the puck into the open net.

1-0, Iceland.

Play resumed and Dwayne won the faceoff, but soon found himself under attack from the Vikings. It was nothing the master stickhandler thought he couldn't handle, but his coach disagreed.

" **Pass it to Fulton!"** Gordon urged Dwayne from the bench.

But the showboating Texan held onto the puck too long, and paid the price when he got manhandled into the boards, giving up possession to Iceland.

"These guys forget how to play or something?" Kevin Wise asked his fellow Hawks back in Minnesota.

"I guess I didn't miss anything good," McGill replied as he carried a bowl full of dip toward Shadow.

"Not really," Larson replied, leaning in to stroke Shadow and encourage his docility. "These non-Duckies don't seem any better than the Duckies...and are probably a lot worse, actually. One of them has gotten ejected already, and another doesn't know how to pass."

"I know," Stevens agreed. "It should have been _us_ invited to join!"

McGill was able to temporarily overcome his terror of the dog by taking in that appalling statement.

"Are you suggesting we play with _L_ _ittle Duckies?"_

Stevens' eyes widened as he realized his mistake.

"No, of course not," he replied. "I'm suggesting we _replace_ them!"

"Naturally," McGill agreed, taking his seat in the middle of the chesterfield, flanked by Stevens and Brown.

Over at the deserted skate shop, a stunned Jan watched Iceland run up the score on Team USA. Alone in the back room, the skate merchant could not believe his eyes, and the angry young man hollering from the USA bench did not look a thing like Gordon Bombay. _This_ young man was sharply-dressed in a fancy suit, with a slicked-back haircut that made him look a bit like an Italian playboy.

It seemed that Jan would have to fly out to Los Angeles and try to find the real Gordon Bombay. With any luck, the skate merchant would be able to replace the impostor on Team USA's bench with their real coach in time to salvage their Gold Medal hopes. But the Norwegian knew that he needed more than luck, so he took care to grab a cardboard box full of new white Duck jerseys before heading home to pack for his trip to California.

Back in LA, Dean Portman went to town on stools, sticks, and anything else he could get his hands on in the USA locker room, smashing stuff all over the place in frustration. The game was on in the small locker room TV, and it was going very badly for his team. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to get out there and drive those 'punks' back to Antarctica or the North Pole _or wherever it is they come from._

As the dreadful 1st period came to a close, Bombay gathered his players at the bench.

" **Where's our concentration, huh? You guys are out there running around like a bunch of chickens with your heads cut off!"**

" **We're doing our best,"** a dejected Jesse offered.

" **Well 'your best,' isn't good enough anymore. Blow this game and we are** ** _one loss_** **away from elimination! You guys might want to go home early, but I sure as heck don't."**

" **My, that was inspiring,"** Averman quipped as Bombay stormed off.

Iceland's 4-0 lead at the beginning of the 3rd period seemed manageable to Team USA compared to the meltdown that followed. Iceland continued to pad their already-hefty lead, and Gordon finally pulled Goldberg, much to the beleaguered goalie's relief. After Goldberg wished Julie luck, the backup goalie went to her net and proceeded to put on the last of her gear when a pair of Viking goons accosted her.

" **Sending a woman to do a** ** _man's_** **job,"** Stahl sneered.

" **Don't break a nail!"** Sandersson added, prompting Stahl to laugh along with him.

Adam had observed the two thugs approach his crush, and was about to move in to protect her when he noticed that the gigantic Icelanders had fallen backwards onto the ice.

" **See you around, fellas,"** Julie said to her tormentors before a referee led her off the ice for 'intent to injure.'

As Adam watched the dazed bullies stagger back to their feet, he made a mental note to never get on Julie's bad side.

An exhausted Goldberg returned to the net, sarcastically thanking Julie **"** **for the breather,"** and proceeded to get lit up by Iceland. The 3rd period was a total massacre – even Fulton's devastating slap-shot was unable to make a difference, as the Viking goalie sacrificed his hand and caught the heater.

As the game wound down, Iceland had taken a 12-0 lead. Only a late goal from Adam had prevented a shutout, and this proved costly.

The USA center made an ill-advised celebration, extending his arm over Iceland's net in triumph and exposing his wrist to a furious Sandersson, who slammed his stick onto it with full force.

The referees – showing the even-handed "impartiality" that led them to eject Portman and Julie – gave Sandersson two minutes in the penalty box for this cheap shot. But Portman, steaming over his ejection and wanting to impose his own kind of justice, came barreling out of the tunnel and tried to go at Sandersson in the penalty box, only to be restrained by two ushers.

" **Sandersson, you're mine! I want a piece of** ** _you!_** **"** Portman growled while the gangly Icelander waved and flashed a smug grin from the other side of the glass.

It was easy for the Viking enforcer to be brave from the safety of the penalty box.

Eventually, the final horn put Team USA out of its misery, and the sullen American squad made their way to their locker room to face the wrath of their coach.

As a glum Bombay shuffled behind his players into the tunnel, he was approached by an anxious Don Tibbles. The marketing executive had survived in the business as long as he had by knowing just how precarious his position was. What's trendy and lucrative one minute could bankrupt a marketing man the next, thus destroying his reputation and his livelihood. Tibbles knew that he had to put the fear of God into Bombay, as both men's rear ends were on the line.

" **12-1, huh? 12-1. You think Hendrix is interested in backing a loser? You're only good to us if you win."**

Gordon felt like he had been slapped in the face as his glittering ride to fame and fortune came to a crashing halt.

" **Don, I'm really…"**

" **I've been good to you, man,"** Tibbles interrupted. **"I gave you a real shot – a** ** _real shot_** **to be somebody. And this is how you repay me."**

" **We just didn't have the magic tonight."**

" **Well you better get the damn magic. And you better get it fast,"** Tibbles implored Bombay. **"Or I'm out of a job, and** ** _you're_** **on your way back to Palookaville, Minnesota — shoveling snow and sharpening skates. Have a nice night."**

The growing knot in Gordon's stomach continued to drag the young coach down as he sluggishly entered his locker room. The normally-boisterous kids were deadly quiet, Iceland having sucked the life out of them. The newbies had never been around Gordon when he was upset, but they all had played the game long enough to anticipate an onslaught. The original D5ers could sense the bubbling cauldron simmering away in their coach.

" **12-1.** ** _Twelve to one_** **,"** Gordon began. **"You know what word comes to mind when I think of that, hmm?** ** _PATHETIC!"_**

The kids, still in most of their gear, all looked down at the floor.

" **You guys were brought here to play hockey!"**

Jesse saw where this was going, having stuck up for his D5 teammates when an even angrier Coach Bombay grilled his teammates for getting humiliated by the Hawks.

" **What about you?"** He demanded.

" **What about me, Jesse?!"**

" **Coach Stansson knew everything about us,"** Julie declared. **"They were** ** _ready_** **for us!"**

" **Yeah,"** Luis agreed. **"You spend all your time driving around in convertibles and talking to all those sponsor fools."**

" **Or hanging out with the Iceland lady,"** Fulton added.

A look of nervousness washed across Gordon's features as his players began to turn on him. Rather than prep his team for Iceland, he had spent the previous night dating an opposing trainer. But how did Fulton know?

" **We saw you two Saturday night,"** Fulton admitted.

Portman, the only player fully dressed in his street clothes, could not hide his disgust.

" **Eating ice cream with the enemy, huh Coach?"** The Chicagoan softly accused Gordon.

But Gordon was not about to let himself get pushed around by a bunch of teens and pre-teens. Especially after such a lousy performance.

" **Hey, what I do is none of your business,"** he firmly declared. **"Is that clear?"**

The players, who had stopped undressing once their coach had entered, got back to taking off their pads.

" **Don't take those pads off!"** Gordon snapped. **"Everyone stay in your gear. We have practice."**

" **Tonight?!"** Goldberg could not believe that they would be made to practice after such grueling game.

But Gordon Bombay – or 'Captain Blood,' as he came to be known – was unmoved by sympathy for his exhausted players. He ordered them out onto the ice where they performed suicide sprints all night long. Tellingly, he had not ordered his players to run any drills, or anything that might be instructive. He opted instead to punish his players for humiliating him.

* * *

Team USA had been running on about three hours of sleep, and it showed when they shuffled into Ms. McKay's classroom the following morning. The tutor knew that trying to teach in those conditions was pointless, as none of the kids were able to stay awake; so she ordered them back to bed, and told them not to worry about their practice scheduled for later in the day.

The kids knew that despite their reprieve, they had better engage in some form of training, if only to stay awake for their game against Germany.

Portman, still steaming over his unfair ejection and his coach's fraternizing with the enemy, was eager to get moving. So the defenseman took it upon himself to lead his team in calisthenics at one of the fields in UCLA's athletic complex.

" **Coach isn't here,"** Connie pointed out between stretches. **"Why do we have to be?"**

" **We got a game tonight, we have to work out,"** Portman answered from his spot in front of his teammates.

" **I say mutiny,"** Goldberg proposed. **"Who's with me?"**

" **Goldberg, I'm too tired to mutiny,"** Dwayne replied as he stood back up.

But Julie had had enough of losing. And whining. And excuse-making. She was anxious to see her teammates show a little more fire, and she wanted to be ready in case Coach Bombay called her number again. With Goldberg's inclination to slack off, Julie liked her chances.

" **Come on, guys,"** she chided her teammates. **"It's not like we couldn't use the conditioning."**

Despite getting shot down by Julie earlier in the week, Portman had recovered his swagger, and was ready to prove to the backup goalie that she had not gotten him down.

" **Speak for yourself,** ** _Babe,"_** he replied with a teasing smile.

Adam was just as exhausted and frustrated as his teammates. And he was quietly suffering from his injured wrist. Combined with the knowledge that Portman had gone out with Julie, along with the defenseman's public flirting with his crush, the former Hawk had taken all that he could.

" **Her name's** ** _Julie_** **, not** ** _Babe,"_** he snapped, moving to confront Portman.

" **Don't tell me how to talk, Rich Boy!"** Portman shot back with a hard shove to Adam's chest.

" **Portman, chill!"** Fulton swooped-in to restrain his Bash Brother. The rest of Team USA quickly moved to get between Adam and Portman to prevent a brawl.

" **Yo, Team USA!"** A short, stocky African-American boy called out over the scrum. **"What are you gonna do today, a million jumping jacks?"**

Portman recognized their visitor as the same local boy who had trolled them during the Trinidad and Iceland games.

" **This kid's crazier than me,"** the defenseman declared. **"Forget about him. Look, Fulton…"**

As Portman turned his attention back to Fulton, who was still restraining him, Jesse moved away from his teammates to face the local boy on rollerblades named Russ Tyler.

" **I'm gettin' sick of you!"** Jesse called out.

" **And I'm gettin' sick of seeing the USA being represented by a bunch of whining babies."**

" **Well, too bad you can't back up that mouth."**

" **Me and my boys can take you** ** _anytime, anywhere,"_** Russ replied as security guards approached him.

But before security could remove the brash native of South-Central Los Angeles, Team USA agreed to follow him and accepted his challenge to play a bit of schoolyard puck. Arriving at an urban basketball court used for roller-hockey with trash cans for nets, Team USA squared up against their tough-looking hosts.

Russ' older brother, James, chided his visitors for being too soft, and too caught up in media distractions, then offered to teach them " **how to play like the** ** _real_** **Team USA."**

" **What would you know about that?"** Portman scoffed.

James flashed a knowing grin.

Once the orange pavement puck dropped, James made a bee-line for Portman and drove him into the chain-link fence.

" **You gotta earn every inch!"** The gritty Californian declared.

Team USA enjoyed the informative scrimmage where they learned how to play blue-collar hockey. Kenny in particular benefited, as James taught the tiny San Franciscan how to hold his own in a hockey brawl. **_Stick, gloves, shirt._** Russ took advantage of the opportunity to show off his 'knucklepuck,' a teed-up slap-shot that broke and changed speeds in the air, similar to the pitch in baseball.

" **Hard to be accurate,"** he admitted to Fulton. **"But it drives goalies crazy."**

After getting charged-up by their Southern California hosts, Team USA headed off, looking forward to their showdown against Germany that evening.

* * *

After discovering an empty locker room and being told-off by Ms. McKay for working the kids too hard, Gordon returned to the Hendrix mansion in Malibu. The place had a cold, empty feel to it, but as the young coach stared out over the ocean, he felt like he would soon miss this place. It had served as the venue of an amazing party, and had given him an intoxicating taste of the glamour and the glory that he had always longed for.

But he would have to leave soon.

His team was one loss away from elimination, and given the post-Iceland confrontation in the locker room, and Ms. McKay's dismissal, it was obvious that he had lost control over his team.

He wasn't even sure if he would bother showing up to the game against Germany later that night.

 _Yep, it's all over._

" **This is no place for a coach,"** came a familiar Scandinavian voice.

Gordon spun around to see Jan emerge from the kitchen, carrying plates of cantaloupe and scrambled eggs. The younger man took a seat at the counter, joining his friend. He was stunned that Jan was willing to close the skate shop and travel all the way to Los Angeles – he only hoped that things were alright back home.

" **I saw the Iceland game on television,"** Jan announced after several moments of silent eating, prompting Gordon to sulk.

" **Who was that man in the suit and wet hair?"** Jan teased. **"Was it raining?"**

" **It's a style, Jan."**

" **You looked like you just got out of the shower!"**

" **You came 2,000 miles to make fun of me? You could have done it over the phone."**

Jan shrugged before setting his napkin down.

 **"On TV, you looked like a man who needed a friend."**

 **"You don't understand,"** Gordon protested as Jan stood up.

The skate merchant was about to take their dirty plates to the dishwasher when he looked back at the young man he had known since the latter's Hawk days. Jan's coarse features softened as he took in the sight of the young man who was experiencing yet another abrupt end to a dream.

" **Gordon, when I told the Goodwill Committee who you were, I did not talk to them about your good looks,"** he began. **"I didn't tell them you would win at any cost. I told them you were a man who loves the game. And I told them that you would teach the kids about more than just winning and losing. I told them that you were the Minnesota Miracle Man, and only** ** _you_** **could teach them how to fly. So be that man, Gordon. Be that man."**

Jan eventually made his way to the arena while Gordon strapped on his rollerblades and skated around a deserted beachside basketball court, hockey stick in hand. The pavement was a poor substitute for ice, but as Gordon flew around, he remembered the last time that he had a falling out with his players; a trip to the frozen pond had cleared his head two years earlier. He recalled how Jack Reilly had pushed him away from hockey, as well as the ice in general.

As the sun began to set, Gordon began to fear that he risked doing to his kids what Reilly had done to him.

The young man returned to the Hendrix mansion and found a duck call left by Jan on the kitchen counter. After changing into jeans, a T-shirt and his coach's jacket, Gordon grabbed the duck call and set out for the arena.


	18. Clawing Back

**A/N:** hey, y'all. Apologies for the slow update, I've been spending more time with the Ghost of Hockey Present than with the Ghost of Hockey Past as of late. But with Chapter 18 out of the way, there's just 9 to go; so in the immortal words of MC Hammer: let's turn this mutha out!

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen: Clawing Back**

Team USA nervously gathered at their bench ahead of the game against Germany. The puck was due to drop in minutes, but Coach Bombay had yet to appear. Unbeknownst to his players, Gordon's roller-therapy had gone long, and he was running late. As the young coach sat still in LA traffic cursing his bad luck, a referee skated over to the USA bench.

" **Team USA,"** he called out. **"I'm sorry, but without a coach behind the bench, you forfeit the game."**

Having already lost to Iceland, a forfeit to Germany would be all that it took to send Team USA home early.

" **But you can't do that,"** Adam protested.

Before the ref could respond, Charlie spotted Ms. McKay out of the corner of his eye. The team tutor had been walking down an aisle in the stands and making her way to her seat. Charlie knew that a ruse was the only thing standing between his team and early elimination, so he put on his poker face and prepared to tell the mother of all bluffs.

" **We have one!"** He confidently announced before skating over to his tutor. **"Ms. McKay!"**

Surprised, she turned to face Charlie.

" **Hey, Charlie. What's up?"**

" **You have to pretend you're our coach, or we forfeit the game."**

" **Where's Coach Bombay?"**

" **Pretend. Or we're out of the tournament!"**

" **But I don't know anything about coaching!"**

At this point, the ref skated over. Nervous, Charlie and Ms. McKay froze; but the team captain quickly regained his composure.

" **Here she is,"** the boy announced. **"Our coach. Coach McKay."**

Ms. McKay looked over at Team USA and saw the pleading in the kids' eyes. She didn't know a goalie from a Zamboni, but she could not discard the quiet desperation of the 12 and 13-year olds whose dreams were hanging in the balance.

Against her cautious instincts, she decided to take a chance.

" **What are you waitin' for?"** She bellowed. **"The ice to freeze? Let's play!"**

The ref nodded, then made his way to center ice along with the German and American first lines to start the game.

Once the puck dropped, Adam won possession and sailed it ahead to Guy with a flick of his good wrist. The blond forward drew a double team as he skated through Germany's zone and around their net, while Adam got into position by the open corner of the goal.

Guy tapped the puck back to Adam, who slapped it in for the early lead.

Having made that shot so many times before, Adam had forgotten to compensate for his injured wrist, and had fired the puck in his normal fashion, causing a short, sharp pang to shoot right through him.

"Something wrong, Adam?"

The star forward looked over to see a worried Jesse Hall eyeing his wrist. Perhaps more than Jesse's expression and tone, the fact that he had addressed Adam by his real name betrayed real concern.

"Uh, yeah," Adam acknowledged. "Something's wrong, alright: we've only got one goal – let's get some more!"

His linemates enthusiastically agreed as they embraced him. Like any hockey player worth his salt, Adam had played through pain before. He had even played through pain worse than this back in his Hawk days. And he was not about to abandon his team when they were only one loss away from elimination, so as his body howled in protest, he slid on his mask of stoicism.

But in spite of his dedication and stamina, Adam Banks was not above getting tired after spending a double shift out on the ice.

His linemates had also gotten gassed, and the sluggish American squad had become a soft target for the fresh German second line who pummeled their exhausted opponents. The American defense melted like butter, but Goldberg managed an heroic save that preserved Team USA's lead.

Ms. McKay had been manning the coach's spot on the USA bench, and she trusted the talent of 'her' players to make up for her lack of coaching experience. She did not know how to call for a line change, or even think to call for one until it became obvious that her winded first line looked like a bunch of listless zombies.

" **Ack…we look tired,"** she stammered. **"We need to…trade places."**

" **What?"** Charlie asked.

" **Uh….."** _use your words, Michelle._ **"….new players!"**

" **Oh,"** Charlie nodded. **"Say 'change it up'."**

" **Change it up,"** she called to the ice in her normal voice.

" **Scream it!"** Charlie instructed.

" **CHANGE IT UP!"**

Within a flash, the American second line vaulted over the wall of the bench, while the first line stampeded through the gate, desperate for the reprieve. As one of the players closed the gate, the tutor stood in awe of the sudden, but orderly movement of players that she had ordered with just three simple words.

" **Cool!"** She enthused, enjoying her newly-found power.

But if Adam had been able to fool his linemates into thinking that he was alright, he failed to convince Michelle McKay. The interim coach ordered Adam to remain on the bench while Charlie took his place on the first line.

The first period was winding down, and as the players on the ice prepared for the next faceoff, the sound of a duck call pierced the air.

Team USA followed the sound and observed Gordon Bombay making his way down the stands and toward their bench. Fulton shook his head from his position on the ice, his irritation with Bombay's antics undiminished by the little bit of Duck nostalgia that his old coach was playing at.

" **Well look who finally shows up,"** the defenseman scoffed.

Jesse was equally unmoved.

" **No way, guys,"** the forward declared. **"Averman, take the faceoff."**

While his linemates moved into position, Charlie fixed his gaze onto Bombay, who continued blowing away on the duck call like a trumpet. The Duck coach continued his calling as he opened the glass door to the team bench, prompting Charlie to skate over while his linemates debated over the appropriate course of action.

" **Come on, what have we got to lose?"** Guy asked.

" **Respect,"** Fulton countered. **"He'll dump us the minute it's all over."**

" **Come on in!"** Gordon called out to the reluctant line. **"Let's go, come on!"**

As the group reluctantly made its way over, Gordon turned to Michelle and gave her an appreciative peck on the cheek.

 **"Thanks,"** he offered.

The tutor's eyes widened in surprise, but she was not offended. She had figured that Gordon had too much easy access to models and comely Icelandic trainers to appreciate her own feminine qualities.

" **Team…guys,"** Gordon began once all the players had piled-in. **"I was wrong. And I'm sorry. I forgot about the team, and the** ** _team_** **is all I have."**

He paused as the truth of his own words sunk in. Half of the kids gathered round him had succeeded in getting him off the bottle and back onto the ice, while both halves contributed to his glitzy run in Los Angeles.

" **All I want is another chance,"** he continued. **"Just one more shot.** ** _I'm back._** **Okay?"**

The team had remained in a brooding, skeptical silence. If actions spoke louder than words to most people, actions meant _everything_ to competitors while words hardly meant anything at all

" **Believe me,"** Gordon pleaded.

There were no loud cheers or words of welcome to greet the young coach, but the team had a game to play, and they would work through their issues with their coach when they had the time to do so. Were they to go down in defeat, their issues would have been a moot point anyway.

Play resumed, and at Charlie's suggestion, Jesse led the Flying V out of the USA zone and onto German ice. Charlie's idea had taken Jesse by surprise, as they were Team USA, not the Mighty Ducks of Minnesota Pee Wee's. But Jesse went ahead and did as instructed, managing to catch Germany off-guard. He passed backward to Averman, who teed-up and fired, scoring the game-winning goal.

With their 3-2 victory, Team USA would live to fight at least another day.

High up in the stands, however, Wolf Stansson, took note of the Flying V. Should his Vikings meet Team USA again, they would be prepared to counter this peculiar formation.

* * *

Having moved back into the dormitory with his team, Gordon gathered his players in the courtyard to burn through his Hollywood issues once and for all. Julie was one of the last players out of the dorm, and saw an open seat next to Portman on top of a picnic table. The dent that the goalie had made in the defenseman's self-confidence had already leveled back out, but Julie was eager to make it clear to Portman that she still valued him as a teammate and friend.

Adam, seated a few yards away between Charlie and Averman looked on in disappointment; but he felt no surprise over Julie's seating choice. It seemed obvious to him that Julie and Portman were fast becoming an item – if they were not one already. For most of the tournament, Adam had avoided saying much of anything that was not directly related to hockey to Julie. Given that he was the first line center, and that she was the back-up goalie, he had a built-in excuse not to talk to her, which he took full advantage of.

 _She probably wants to talk about her cool new boyfriend Portman, anyway,_ Adam sulked.

But the center snapped out of his brooding when his coach arrived.

Gordon had been carrying a life-sized cardboard cutout of himself posing in a fancy Hendrix suit.

" **I've had a lot of big distractions since I've been here in LA,"** Gordon confessed, brandishing his cardboard cutout. **_"This_** **is a distraction,"** he declared to chuckles of agreement from his players.

He handed the cutout back to Jan before dropping a lit match into a metal barrel that had been lined with gas-soaked newspapers.

" **This is a fire in a barrel,"** Gordon continued before taking the cutout back, and placing it into the barrel. **"This is a distraction in a fire in a barrel. Any questions?"**

As his players cheered and applauded, Gordon knew that he had won back his team. Having informed Tibbles that he would be unable to attend the next cocktail party at the Hendrix mansion, Gordon went to work prepping his team for their game against Russia. True to Duck form, their practice session turned out to be fun and informative – if slightly frustrating at times.

But as Luis crashed into a neatly-stacked pile of soda cans, Gordon gently invited his players to get up and try again whenever they faced a setback. After doing a series of bear-crawls on the ice and running shooting drills, Team USA finished with a round of conditioning at one of the campus gyms.

Spirits had been running high as the kids finished changing back into their street clothes. With the temperature having mercifully dropped, they looked forward to a relaxing night in their dormitory ahead of their next game.

" **Hey, Banks! Let's go!"** Portman called out as the team began exiting.

" **Coming, I'll be right there,"** the center replied from his locker.

His wrist had been burning like wildfire, and he was desperate for a little privacy so he could tape it up in secret. After checking to ensure that he was alone, Adam sat down on a stool and reached for the roll of training tape that he had concealed in his locker. As he tried moving his wrist, he failed to hear his coach creep up from behind.

" **Now just think how good you'd play with** ** _two_** **good wrists,"** Gordon suggested.

Adam looked up with a slight start.

" **Coach,"** the forward began. **"It's just a little sore. I'm okay."**

He placed the roll back in his locker, not bothering to tape up his wrist.

" **I should have spotted this sooner,"** Gordon declared, approaching his star center. **"I'm sorry, man. I wasn't doing my job."**

" **Coach, I'm fine. I can play, I swear,"** Adam insisted, standing back up.

" **Okay,"** Gordon grabbed a hockey stick. **"Here,"** he set the stick horizontally, then extended it toward Adam. **"Let's find out."**

Adam reached for the stick with his left hand.

" **The** ** _other_** **hand,"** Gordon instructed.

Adam obliged his coach, and gripped the stick with his right hand, prompting Gordon to release his own grip.

" **Now rotate it."**

The boy made a slight, pathetic movement of his wrist that sent a sharp pain up his arm, causing him to drop the stick.

Gordon shook his head sadly.

" **I have to bench you."**

Adam's eyes widened in horror.

" **No, you can't do that!"**

" **Adam, you can injure yourself permanently."**

" **You can't bench me, I gotta play! All the scouts are here watching me, this is my shot!"**

" **You're young, you're gonna have plenty of shots, believe me."**

" **But my dad's counting on me!"**

Adam fished for a reason, _any_ reason to remain active on the roster. Sure, his father was demanding and expected him to play through minor pain, but the boy was reaching for any excuse that his coach would accept if it meant that he could dress.

Gordon looked at the boy sympathetically as he let out an apologetic sigh.

" **I'm sorry."**

Adam sulked as he sat back down.

Gordon's heart went out to the boy with whom he had so much in common. Both were former Hawks who had worn the number 9. Both had been victims of impossibly high expectations. Each of the two were their own harshest critics, and both of them had difficulty letting go of their fierce competitive streaks that robbed the game of its joy.

Gordon knew Philip Banks only vaguely. The coach knew that Philp was a highly capable and respected lawyer, with whom his old firm Ducksworth, Saver and Gross frequently did battle, only to come out on the losing side. Gordon also knew how hard Philip had tried to prevent Adam's move to the Ducks, and the reluctance with which the Banks patriarch had accepted his son's decision.

After that first championship victory with the Ducks, Philip brought a camcorder to every game; and Gordon knew that these videos were not home movies to be enjoyed years after Adam had grown up and left home.

Gordon thought back to his own late father as he sat down and faced Adam.

 **Hey,"** the coach began. **"My dad worked a lot when I was a kid, so when he made it to a game I wanted** ** _so bad_** **to score 100 goals for him. I spent half the game a nervous wreck, my stomach in knots."**

Adam's morose mask slipped to reveal an understanding look.

" **That's how I feel,"** the boy acknowledged.

Gordon nodded. He was beginning to regret not having this conversation with Adam sooner, but he continued.

" **Before he died, my dad told me that his happiest times were watching me skate on this pond we had behind our house. He didn't need me to score 100 goals for him. He was proud of me because I was his son, and I did my best."**

A soft tear ran down Adam's cheek as he thought about his relationship with his father. Expressing affection had never come naturally to Philip, and his reticence was one of the things that fueled Adam's obsessive drive. Hearing a 'nice job,' or 'well done' from his father was more likely than an 'I love you,' so Adam pursued hockey-based compliments with a single-mindedness that was alien to most boys his age.

" **I'm sure that's how your dad feels,"** Gordon assured the boy. **"I know it is."**

" **Thanks, Coach."**

Gordon nodded.

" **Alright, now let's get that wrist X-rayed. Let's go."**

* * *

As Gordon continued to train his players, Team USA caught a break. Russia had defeated Iceland in a stunning upset, leveling out the tournament standings and giving Team USA another crack at Iceland down the road. Slowly but surely, it seemed that Team USA was clawing back from the precipice, and Charlie had convinced Bombay to fill Adam's roster space with Russ Tyler and his knucklepuck.

It was something that Iceland had never seen before, and Charlie was confident that he had acquired a possible game-changer for his team in the form of Russ Tyler. The newest addition to the roster was a local boy, however, and his parents did not see the need for him to join Team USA in their dormitory, so Russ was not around for the latest game of poker.

Adam, Charlie, Fulton, Portman, Kenny and Luis gathered around a dorm room desk for another evening of Texas Hold 'em. But as he shuffled the cards, Charlie noticed that someone was missing.

"Where's Jesse?" He asked.

Right on cue, a knock at the door came. Adam got up, but Fulton gently pushed him back down into his seat before the defenseman made his way to the door, allowing Jesse in.

"Sup, guys?" The forward asked as he hauled in a hard blue cooler filled with ice and soda pop.

A small white towel and a plastic baggie had been resting on the top of the cooler, and Jesse carefully set his cargo down in the middle of the room.

Although the heatwave had passed, plenty of hot air had remained trapped inside the dormitory, and the grateful boys made their way to the cooler and eagerly grabbed the chilled refreshment that had been on offer. Once the others had grabbed their sodas, Jesse twisted the cap off a bottle of Mountain Dew and handed it to Adam.

"Thanks," Adam replied, taking the bottle with his good hand. "But I could have done that myself."

Jesse shook his head with a slight grin.

"What's the matter, Cake Eater? I can't do something nice for you?"

Adam had not been thinking in those terms. Like most injured athletes, he simply wanted to prove that he was not a complete invalid.

But once Jesse had brought up the niceness factor, Adam felt even _less_ comfortable. The former Hawk recalled the times that he had tried to injure Jesse – both against the Cubs and during the subsequent practice – and privately wished that Jesse hadn't become such a good friend.

"The doctor wants me to do as much with my wrist as I can," Adam lied. "It'll heal faster that way."

The only thing more painful to Adam than his memories of bullying and of headhunting was the fact that Jesse seemed so willing to forgive and forget.

In a way, Adam thought that his former rival would be easier to deal with had he remained an enemy.

 _"Men are more ready to repay an injury than a benefit, because gratitude is a burden and revenge is a pleasure."_

The quote from Tacitus was one of many things that Adam wished he hadn't learned. But if Michelle McKay had only just learned the mechanics of line changes, she was sufficiently versed in Ancient wisdom to trouble Adam's conscience.

The poker game eventually got underway, and sure enough, it came down to Adam and Jesse.

At the sight of his full house, Adam folded and allowed Jesse to win.

"And you said you could open your own bottle of pop," Jesse teased Adam. "You can't even play cards! You need me to help you into bed, while I'm at it?"

 _That's better,_ Adam thought, returning the grin.

* * *

Charlie's talent scouting and roster management had proven to be impeccable, and Russ Tyler helped Team USA knucklepuck their way to a 3-1 victory over Russia. Not only had Team USA survived tournament elimination, but they had even secured the chance to redeem themselves against the Vikings in the Gold Medal game. To reward his players, Gordon managed to get 'The Great One,' Wayne Gretzky, to pay the team a visit in their locker room after the Russia game.

Julie still had not gotten the chance to play, but she forgot all about that as she took in the sight of the greatest hockey player who ever lived.

 _Well, for now anyway,_ she thought, flashing a quick glance at the injured center who shared Gretzky's number 99.

In addition to her lack of minutes, Julie had also been disappointed by the distance between Adam and herself.

Given his aloofness, she thought he was mad at her for some reason. At times, she came close to working up the courage to talk to him. But those hard sapphire eyes could be as intimidating as they were beautiful.

She flashed a shy smile when Adam caught her staring as they lined-up for the team photo with Gretzky. Once their eyes met, the two immediately looked away from each other.

" **Everyone say, 'hockey'!"** A photographer instructed.

The kids obliged, and smiled along with Gordon, Jan, Tibbles, Ms. McKay, and The Great One.

* * *

A casually-dressed Gordon Bombay led his players onto the ice for practice the next day. The kids were confused, given that their coach had ordered them onto the ice without their gear, but they did as instructed, and hit the ice in nothing but their street clothes and their skates. Once they gathered around their coach, Luis spoke up.

" **Coach, shouldn't we have our hockey gear on?"**

" **Guys, this is our last team practice,"** Gordon replied. **"Which means…"**

"… **the return of Captain Blood,"** Averman joked, drawing laughter.

" **No,"** Gordon replied, reaching for his beach ball. **"It means 'let's have some fun'!"**

He tossed the beach ball out onto the ice, causing some of his players to give chase. Others skated around aimlessly, enjoying their unstructured time on the ice. Tibbles even tried his hand at skating under Jan's guidance.

" **I can skate!"** The marketing man triumphantly announced as Jan released his grip.

The skate merchant chuckled.

" **Yes, he can skate,"** he affirmed to himself.

A few seconds later, a blood-curdling cry rang out while Tibbles crashed into the boards and fell into one of the team benches.

Team USA had been enjoying themselves until their beach ball got away from them and got snatched by Wolf Stansson – his equally dour Vikings standing behind him, fully-equipped.

'The Dentist' popped the beach ball and glared at the American players who had stopped skating and stood frozen at the sight of their Icelandic rivals. The Vikings quietly skated toward center ice behind their coach, getting closer to Team USA.

" **Play time's over,"** he announced, confronting Gordon. **"We have the ice now. You and your little rink rats must leave."**

" **We're right here, Coach!"** Portman assured Gordon.

The Bash Brother was not about to let his coach or his team get bullied into submission.

" **The only thing** ** _little_** **was your career in the pros,"** Bombay quipped, drawing laughter from Team USA.

" **Gordon, no,"** Michelle tried to de-escalate the situation. **"Let's go."**

But Gordon Bombay was not backing down, and he flashed his players a grin as they continued to laugh.

" **Well at least I was there,"** Stansson retorted. **"I was** ** _there."_**

" **You were a disgrace,"** Gordon shot back, prompting an uncomfortable silence all around.

" **Alright, team. We're outta here,"** the American coach called out. **"Let's go, I said, come on!"**

" **You still move on the ice?"** Stansson challenged Gordon. **"Well please, play a little with me. Show me that famous triple deke that your daddy taught you,"** the Vikings coach looked over to Jan. **"Or was it that old geezer over there?"**

Team USA exchanged uncomfortable murmurs among themselves while Stansson turned to his team's trainer.

" **Marria,"** he called out.

The blonde trainer tossed a stick at her boss, who in turn tossed it to Gordon.

" **Three-bar,"** Gordon declared. **"First one to hit both posts and the crossbar – you have to take it out past the blue line."**

" **I know the game."**

The rival coaches squared-up against each other and did battle while their teams looked on. Stansson drew first blood with a strike to a post after knocking Gordon down to the ice, but Gordon answered right back with a strike of his own. Gordon had seized the momentum and struck the cross bar after the third draw.

" **One more post and you go home crying,"** Gordon taunted his rival. **"By the way, Stansson…you owe me a beach ball."**

As Gordon moved to fire the game-winning shot, he felt a searing pain in his bad knee as Stansson hooked him from behind. The American coach tumbled to the ice while his players rushed in to his aid.

" **Get your coach off the ice,"** Stansson commanded. **"We have to practice now."**

As Gordon staggered back to his feet, he gave his rival a look of death, which the Icelander returned.

Gold was not the only thing that the two men would be coaching for.


	19. Going for Gold

**Chapter Nineteen: Going for Gold**

Adam could not believe his luck.

Just when it seemed certain that he would be watching his team fight for gold from the stands, the pain in his wrist had vanished. First tentatively, then confidently, he rolled his wrist without the feeling of needles peppering his arm. Though he had accepted Bombay's decision to bench him, Adam had never stopped praying that he would recover in time to play in the gold medal game. And against all odds, his prayers had been answered.

 _This is almost like something out of a movie!_

He climbed out of bed, grabbed his stick, and began firing invisible pucks in his boxer briefs and white undershirt.

As Adam began mumbling play-by-play commentary, Jesse began to stir from his twin bed on the other side of the room.

"And Adam Banks is just giving Olaf Sandersson fits," Adam intoned. "Banks has gotten five goals by him and we're not even through the first!"

At this, Jesse rubbed his eyes and looked up to see Adam spinning, sliding, and shooting around their cramped dorm room – with the occasional pause to raise his arms in triumph after scoring an invisible goal.

"So it's finally happened," Jesse spoke-up. "You've gone and lost your cake-eatin' mind."

Adam looked to his roommate with a start. He had been in such ecstasy that he had forgotten that he was not alone.

"Oh, hey man," he replied. "Sorry to wake you."

Jesse shrugged as he looked at the digital clock on his nightstand.

"The alarm would've gone off in five minutes anyway. So what's up with you?"

"Jesse, I'm cured...or healed...or... _whatever!_ I can play!"

"Come again?"

"I don't know what happened, man – but the pain is all gone!"

The old D5er raised a suspicious eyebrow. Jesse was not a doctor, but he doubted that Adam's injury could have healed so quickly. He figured that Adam was either lying in a desperate attempt to play, or that Adam was experiencing some weird, temporary relief that would soon give way to excruciating pain.

"You might wanna take some practice shots on the pavement," Jesse suggested. "You're probably rusty from your time on the bench; and you'll definitely wanna make sure your wrist is healed for real."

Adam eagerly nodded, then proceeded to get dressed while Jesse got up from bed and went about his morning routine. Once he was fully dressed, Adam all but sprinted out of the dorm, then went to a nearby basketball court that was equipped with an orange hockey net to provide Team USA with a bit of extra shooting practice.

The only players who took advantage of this opportunity for extra practice were Julie and Portman. The back-up goalie had been keen to remain sharp for the moment that Bombay honored his promise and called her number. With only the Gold Medal game remaining on their schedule, Julie knew that she would get her chance now or never, so she insisted on having Portman practice shots on her until Ms. McKay had to inform the pair that it was time for bed.

Adam knew all about these extra practice sessions, and he could not shake the feeling of jealousy that they aroused in him. At one point when he had been walking by, Julie and Portmad paused to greet him. The tone in Julie's voice indicated that she wanted Adam to stop and chat.

He simply said "hey," then carried on walking.

But there was no Julie and no Portman at the court this morning.

Adam reached into his pocket for an orange pavement puck, dropped it, then went to town. He fired the puck, fished it out of the net, took it back, fired again, and repeated – over and over again. His shooting was sharp, and there was no hint even of stiffness in his wrist, let alone pain.

As he was wont to do when practicing, Adam lost track of time and kept slapping away at the puck while Gordon gathered the rest of the team together and led them on the walk to the arena.

Gordon had figured that Adam would be watching from the stands, so he had not bothered to fetch the apparently-injured center. The coach figured that it was hard enough for Adam to miss out on the big game, so he decided to give the boy space to get to the arena in his own time.

Adam fired again and struck the far post, ending his streak of goals. He had been in the zone, and the missed shot brought Adam back to reality. He realized that he had better get moving, or he'd miss the game. He sprinted back to his room, changed into clean street clothes, and took care to grab his Team USA training jacket on his way back out.

He threw the jacket on, but did not bother to zip it as he made his way to the arena as quickly as his legs would allow, hockey stick in hand.

Several minutes later, he arrived at the locker room. His teammates were mostly dressed in their gear and were surprised to see him. But none of them were more surprised than Gordon. He looked on wearily, anticipating a desperate plea from Adam to play.

" **Coach,"** Adam called out, approaching Gordon. **"I woke up, and the pain was gone,"** he declared, twirling his hockey stick with what had been his bad wrist.

His teammates looked on, pleasantly surprised.

But Gordon was aware of the roster situation, and let out a sigh as he prepared to break the disappointing news to Adam.

" **Adam, I'm sorry. But we already have a full roster."**

A crestfallen look washed over the boy's face, but he was not the only player who was wearing his disappointment on his face.

Russ began taking off his pads with a frown, anticipating his removal to make room for Adam when he felt Charlie's hand land on his shoulder.

" **He can have my spot,"** Charlie offered.

The Captain knew that his team needed a healthy Adam Banks to play, and he was eager to keep the Knucklepucker on the roster. With an opponent as formidable as Iceland, Team USA needed every advantage they could possibly secure. If Charlie were to dress and his team were to lose, he would never forgive himself.

" **It's what I can do for the team,"** Charlie insisted, approaching Adam and Gordon. **"Let me do it."**

Adam gave his Captain an appreciative pat on the shoulder.

" **Charlie,"** Gordon handed his coaching pad to the Captain. **"I'm gonna need you on the bench with me coaching."**

The team greeted the new arrangement with a round of applause and cheers while Adam made his way to his locker to change. Had he been told in Minnesota that his LA locker would be next to Julie's, he would never have believed his good luck. But he pointedly looked away from the goalie as he set his stick down without saying a word.

Julie, who had been applauding with the rest, was disappointed by Adam's aloofness but was not about to press him on it.

They both had bigger fish to fry.

* * *

Iceland won possession on the opening faceoff, and proceeded to impose their will on Team USA with ferocious hits; Stahl had even managed to knock Portman down as the teams slugged it out in the American zone. Goldberg made a stick save in the opening minute, but his defense was unable to take the puck out of their own zone, so Iceland continued its onslaught.

In a blatant act of goalie interference, Stahl tripped Goldberg, leaving a wide open net for Sandersson to slap the puck in. The referees had been loath to call penalties against the Vikings for the entire tournament, and they were not about to start now.

1-0, Iceland.

" **Hey, too slow,** ** _big boy,"_** Sandersson taunted Goldberg, prompting the goalie to leave his net and pursue the Viking goon.

Ken and Dwayne moved to restrain their goalie, much to Goldberg's relief. He wanted to look like he was standing up to Sandersson, but he knew better than to try and fight the gigantic Icelander, so he urged his teammates to continue holding him back while he talked trash.

Before play could resume, Gordon called for a line change, whispering a word of encouragement to Russ. Stansson had noticed this and anticipated a knucklepuck, so the Dentist took care to brace his second line for it before sending them out.

Sure enough, an Icelandic defender knocked Russ down as he teed-up to take a shot. The Viking passed ahead to Sandersson, who confidently charged into the USA zone and scored again.

2-0, Iceland.

On the bench, Averman despaired as he watched his teammates get manhandled by the bruising Icelandic squad.

" **We can't make it,"** he sighed. **"Iceland's bigger. They're stronger. They're faster. They…have more facial hair."**

Julie rolled her eyes. She was a fighter, and she wanted nothing more than to get between the pipes and stop the bleeding for her team; but Bombay loyally stood by his starting goalie.

Adam hit the ice at the next line change, and Sandersson immediately took a swing at the American's bad wrist.

" **Hey, ref, why don't you call something for cryin' outloud?!"** Gordon demanded from the bench. **"He almost took his arm off!"**

The refs obliged, and escorted Sandersson to the penalty box.

" **Two minutes was well worth it."**

" **Get in the box, you big goon,"** Ken snapped as he made his way past Sandersson and over to Adam.

Eventually, it was determined that no damage had been done to the wrist, and Adam was able stay in the game once he rolled it comfortably in front of his coach.

The shifty second line for Team USA featuring Connie, Luis, and Dwayne managed to slap the puck around in the Icelandic zone, but was unable to convert their passes into a goal. A big Viking forward named Haslett intercepted a pass to Dwayne, then took off on a fast break with Luis in furious pursuit.

Unfortunately for Team USA, the Miami speedster failed to slow down as he caught up to the Icelander, propelling the Viking toward the net for another goal.

3-0, Iceland.

Desperate to get something going, Gordon called for the Flying V, prompting Stansson to call for the appropriate counter-measure in Icelandic. With Jesse taking his customary spot at the point on the Flying V, USA confidently flew into Iceland's zone, only to be greeted by a big, black wall.

The Vikings stole the puck and knocked the Americans down like bowling pins before four of them skated into the USA zone unopposed. Once again, Stahl passed to Sandersson for another goal, extending Iceland's lead to 4.

As the second period began, it was beginning to feel like _déjà vu_ for Team USA. The Americans were hopelessly outmatched by a stronger and faster Icelandic squad. With the knucklepuck and the Flying V having already failed to turn his team's fortunes around, Gordon was running out of tricks to pull in his coaching duel with the Dentist.

But if Gordon did 'fancy,' the Bash Brothers did 'brute force.'

Fulton and Portman hit the ice at the next line change, and managed to energize their teammates by knocking a series of Vikings onto their butts. Once Ken had won possession, he split the Viking defenders with a dazzling spin-move in the air. Dazed, the Icelanders were unable to prevent Ken's pass to Fulton. Once Ken was in position by the net, Fulton passed it back to the former figure skater, who in turn gave Team USA their first goal.

4-1, Iceland.

The diminutive San Franciscan was feeling a bit too full of himself, however, and he taunted the Icelandic goalie, who in turn went after him. But the American forward did not back down. He proceeded to do as James Tyler had instructed him during their game of roller hockey: stick, gloves, shirt.

The crowd went wild as Ken proceeded to rain tiny fists down upon the Icelandic goalie, whose arms were locked in his jersey, but a referee quickly swooped in and escorted the 'Little Bash Brother' to the penalty box.

The bigger Bash Brothers were inspired by Ken's aggression, and feeding off the energy of the crowd, they skated up and down the Viking bench, pounding Icelandic heads like bongo drums. Gordon cried for restraint from the bench, but the Bash Brothers were too amped-up. Soon, they joined Ken in the penalty box, leaving just two skaters on the ice for Team USA.

Alone on the ice with Luis, Connie did her best to keep the puck away from Iceland, but was checked into the boards by Sandersson, prompting him to cackle maniacally as Connie staggered back to her feet. After another hard check, Dwayne came to Connie's rescue from the bench with his omnipresent rope and succeeded in lassoing Sandersson before giving the Icelander a lecture on treating ladies with respect.

Thus, Team USA closed out the second period with yet another penalty – this time for 'roping.'

The crowd appeared to be enjoying the team's antics, but they trailed Iceland 4-1.

" **This isn't hockey,"** Gordon scoffed. **"This is a circus!"**

The period-ending horn sounded, bringing the second intermission, and prompting the teams to return to their locker rooms. Once all of Team USA was gathered, Gordon strolled in. His team was trailing by 3 goals, but his players had been energized by their flamboyant performance in the closing minutes of the 2nd period.

" **Did you all enjoy that?"** He asked

" **YEAH!"**

" **Okay, well so did they,"** Gordon replied, putting a damper on his team's enthusiasm. **"Because they're still three goals* up, and we're one period away from defeat."**

" **Well if we can't beat 'em we might as well keep our pride,"** Jesse protested.

" **Jesse, that's** ** _not_** **pride,"** Gordon countered. **"Sure when Dwayne roped that big oaf part of me cheered. But guys I've been there, I know how you feel. I wanted to cream that jerk that busted my knee when I played in the Minors. And I really,** ** _really_** **wanted to go after Stansson for that cheap shot."**

His players listened attentively, wondering where their coach was going with this speech.

" **But you know what?"** Gordon asked rhetorically. **"My knee will heal. And if I become someone I'm not – if I** ** _sink_** **to their level – then I've lost more than my knee. You understand?"**

The players gave affirmative murmurs.

" **We're not goons, we're not bullies,"** Gordon declared. **"No matter what people say or do, we have to be ourselves. You…"** he pointed to Portman. **"Who are you?"**

" **Dean Portman?"** The defenseman was surprised by the question.

 **"From where?"**

" **Chicago, Illinois,"** Portman answered more confidently.

Gordon proceeded to go around the locker room, forcing all of his players to remember who they were. Once all of them had rattled off their names and hometowns, Jan stepped forward and reminded the kids that **"d** **ucks fly together,"** and the skate merchant unveiled the spiffy white-and-eggplant jerseys, designed for Old and New Ducks alike.

Team USA discarded their Hendrix-designed uniforms, and returned to the ice in white, eggplant, and teal. Stansson demanded a penalty of some sort, but the request fell on deaf ears. Having been brow-beaten by the Icelander for the entire tournament, the refs had finally started to act independently, and declined to jump when ordered by the Dentist.

The Ducks won possession at the faceoff, and Connie managed to cut Iceland's lead in half with a quick goal; but Gunnar Stahl answered right back with a goal of his own, bringing Iceland's lead back to 3. The Ducks answered back with a trick play designed by Charlie, where Adam got in position beneath a jump puck. The ex-Hawk managed to get it in past the goalie, despite being knocked flat on his chest.

5-3, Iceland.

Play resumed with Iceland winning possession, only to lose the puck to Luis, who took off on a fast-break.

No Viking could hope to catch the speedster, but Stansson was not too worried. He figured that the Duck would crash into the goalie and prompt a faceoff. But Luis managed to put on the brakes directly in front of the Icelandic goalie; and once the forward recovered from this surprise, he tapped it in to cut the Viking lead to 1.

With his team back in the game, Gordon finally managed to outfox Stansson with a trick play that caught the Dentist and his boys flat-footed.

After calling a timeout, Gordon had gotten Goldberg and Russ to swap spots, and when the knucklepucker lifted his goalie mask at center ice, Stansson looked on in horror as the newest Duck had an open scoring lane.

" **The goalie! Nooooo!"**

The puck wobbled and broke in the air, but it ended up inside the Viking net, tying the game at 5 as the third period drew to a close.

With the gold medal hanging in the balance, the game came down to a shootout. Jesse managed to draw first blood for the Ducks, but big Number 74 answered right back for the Vikings.

1-1.

Guy Germaine tapped-in a second goal for the Ducks, and Iceland's miss on their second attempt gave Team USA its first lead of the game.

Dwayne dribbled the puck as he closed in on the Viking goalie, but the Texan was too fancy for his own good, and he missed his chance to put away the game then and there for the Ducks – paving the way for Sandersson to tie it back up.

The Icelandic goalie looked on nervously as he watched Fulton pause to tee-up his infamous slap-shot. The goalie had still been feeling that painful save he had gotten against Fulton during their teams' first meeting earlier in the tournament. Perhaps mercifully, the puck did not hit the goalie's bruised, gloved hand; instead, it hit him directly in the mask – where it ricocheted into the goal while the Viking was left seeing stars.

But Iceland's Number 5 tied it back up, 3-3.

Adam responded with a goal of his own, restoring the Duck lead.

It was up to Gunnar Stahl to keep Iceland in it. Upon seeing the cocky Icelandic star hit the ice, Gordon ordered Julie into the net, informing his backup goalie that the Viking was **"** **fancy,"** and advised her to anticipate a glove-side triple deke.

Sure enough, Stahl performed a triple deke, but incredibly, he stopped a good 15 yards in front of the USA net. Having already shown off his finesse, the Viking was keen to showcase his strength, so he let rip a Fultonesque slap-shot, expecting the girl that he had taunted earlier to either flinch or dive away.

But Julie stood her ground and caught the bullet.

It had all happened so quickly that the crowd could not quite follow. But as Julie let the puck fall from her glove, the coliseum erupted in cheers.

As the jubilant Ducks made for the ice to celebrate their triumph, Julie lifted her mask and skated toward the vanquished Viking.

" **Nice try."**

He looked up and was about say something snarky in response, but Julie had already gotten engulfed by her teammates. For the rest of his hockey-playing days, and even a bit beyond, Gunnar Stahl would never be able to decide if Julie Gaffney had meant to be comforting or taunting. Whatever their intent, the words "nice try" would haunt him for years.

But Wolf Stansson was more interested in the blown shot by his star player.

" **Gunnar,"** he called out. **"You lost it for me."**

" **You lost it for yourself,"** he shot back. **"Let's go shake their hands."**

Gunnar lined-up his teammates before Stansson could respond.

After the Vikings offered the Ducks their grudging congratulations, and Gunnar gifted Charlie with the nickname "Captain Duck," Adam brought Old Glory onto the ice, then handed it to Charlie with an affectionate pat on the arm.

The Captain waved the flag as his teammates got in position behind him for a victory lap.

* * *

Gordon had gathered his Ducks – Old and New – for a camp-out in Minnesota before they all went their separate ways for the remainder of the summer. As he stepped out of his tent one evening and watched Charlie prevent a disaster by putting out Goldberg's flaming marshmallow, the Minnesota Miracle Man realized that he was privileged to coach such an exceptional group of kids.

The team had worked through their initial misgivings in the aftermath of the roster cuts before the tournament had begun, and Old Ducks and New Ducks freely intermingled around the camp fire. Connie had been flanked by Guy and Julie, and the Bash Brothers sat together, while Adam sat in between Jesse, the Old Alpha Duck, and Luis. On Jesse's other side sat Ken.

While seated next to Dwayne, who was strumming on his acoustic guitar, Averman began singing Queen's _We are the Champions,_ and the others — including Gordon, Tibbles, Jan, and Michelle — soon joined, and gave a rousing chorus.,

It had been getting late, so Gordon ordered the kids to bed once the singing ended, leaving the four adults to watch the flames slowly turn to embers.

Jan, firmly in agreement with Benjamin Franklin that early to bed, early to rise "makes one healthy, wealthy, and wise," was the first of the adults to call it a night. Tibbles, like any good marketing man, had a reliable feel for knowing when people were receptive, and when they were not. He quickly determined that his presence admist Gordon and Michelle was redundant, so he bade them goodnight and turned in for the evening.

The pair of young adults had been sitting quietly for several minutes when Michelle scooted-in close to Gordon after he shifted a log that caused the fire to die down.

"Sorry," she offered. "Just a little cold, that's all."

But Gordon was not about to complain.

"We can make our own heat," he offered, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, while keeping a stick in the other hand to manage the fire.

Michelle gave him a shove, but chuckled and allowed Gordon to wrap his arm around her again. She was due to return to Duluth by the end of the summer to prepare for the coming school year, and she imagined that Gordon would stay behind in the Twin Cities. That unpleasant thought had in no way diminished her appreciation of his company, however. Still, she wondered what the future had in store for the Minnesota Miracle Man.

"So what are you gonna do now, Gordon?"

The young man, who had been brooding over the embers, looked over with a slight start.

"Don't worry, I wasn't gonna ask you to marry me," Michelle teased.

He laughed in return. The handsome young man had always liked the ladies, but problems arose when the ladies liked him too much in return.

Fortunately, that had not appeared to be the case this time.

"I mean…you're not going back into the Minors, are you?" Michelle asked. "I mean, I'm all for following dreams, don't get me wrong; but you've got a bad knee, and you're not getting any younger…no offense."

Gordon shrugged.

"Nah, none taken," he assured her. "Actually, I've been offered a job to coach the JV hockey team at my old prep school, Eden Hall."

"Really? That's wonderful! I mean, you've accepted, right?"

He nodded before flashing a quick glance around the tents to make sure that none of the kids were eavesdropping.

Satisfied, he leaned in closer to Michelle and spoke in a whisper.

"Look, don't tell the kids…y'know….I don't want them getting their hopes up if this ends up not working out," he began. "But I'm gonna to try to get them – all of them – on full scholarship so they can continue being a team."

Her eyes widened in surprise. Even Michelle McKay, who knew nothing of hockey, knew that Eden Hall was home to one of the most prestigious high school hockey programs in the Midwest – if not the entire country. Should Gordon succeed in his efforts, it would provide the Ducks with a tremendous opportunity.

"But isn't it a little late?" She asked. "I mean, school starts back up in two weeks, and hockey season not long after that."

Gordon nodded.

"It is. For this year, anyway. And they're all about a year too young anyway. I figure I'll use this year to work over Dean Sherman."

The stodgy old schoolmaster was unlikely to be keen on Gordon's idea, but the young man's former biology teacher, John Buckley, was rumored to be Sherman's successor once the old man retired at the end of the upcoming school year. Gordon imagined that his favorite teacher would be much easier to persuade.

Michelle let out a loud yawn before flashing an embarrassed look.

"Sorry," she offered. "I'm just really tired. I think I better hit the hay."

"Got it," Gordon replied. "I'll be on Bear Watch."

A look of horror washed over the tutor's face, prompting Gordon to grin mischievously.

"Don't worry, there aren't really bears in these woods," he assured her. "I think the biggest animals out here are squirrels."

Michelle gave Gordon a parting shove as she got to her feet.

"You're such a _funny_ guy," she teased.

* * *

 **A/N:** *Gordon had actually said "3 _points."_ not "3 goals." I took the liberty of correcting him.


	20. A Bittersweet Summer

**Chapter Twenty: A Bittersweet Summer  
**

At Charlie's suggestion, the Minnesota-based Ducks sought refuge from the sweltering July heat at Mickey's Diner. But the diner's air conditioning was not the only draw for the sweaty 13 and 14-year olds. The free milkshakes and sundaes on offer from Casey were hard to say "no" to – especially after a long game of roller hockey. It was the summer of 1996, and the Ducks were due to begin their freshman year of high school that September, but Charlie had a little surprise for his friends.

Once the Ducks were all settled in a cluster of booths, their former captain spoke up.

"Hey guys."

Charlie had shot up about four inches since the Goodwill Games, and he now stood at just under six feet. His reddish-brown hair had also gotten darker, which had the effect of making girls notice his green eyes more than ever before.

"So you probably wanna know why I asked you guys to hang out in 90 degree weather," he continued, drawing murmurs of agreement.

"Because you got adopted by Captain Blood?" Goldberg asked, prompting a few chuckles.

Charlie grinned, but shook his head.

"No, but Coach is definitely involved," he answered. "He's gotten us all scholarships to that prep school he coaches at – Eden Hall."

The news was greeted by a wave of excited murmurs that lasted several seconds until Connie's voice emerged from over the din of her friends.

"When you say 'us all,' does that mean…?"

"…Julie, Portman, Luis, Russ, Ken, and Dwayne," Charlie affirmed.

This clarification drew more excited murmurs. Despite going their separate ways after the 1995 Junior Goodwill Games, Team USA had remained tight through handwritten letters, the occasional long-distance phone call, and that new-fangled thing that the techies were calling "email."

Back in Minnesota, the Ducks had not played together as a single unit during their 8th grade year. Adam had remained separate from his public school teammates by attending Sienna Middle School, and the original Ducks who had gotten cut prior to the Goodwill Games had all taken up other hobbies. The Duncans had returned to figure skating, Terry Hall had gotten into basketball, wisecracking Peter Mark discovered a talent for rhetoric and joined the debate team, and the aptly-named David Karp joined the swim team and saw his baby fat melt away.

The remaining Minnesota-based Ducks actually played against each other from neighboring school districts.

And now the Ducks were to fly together again.

All who were there to hear the news from Charlie were ecstatic, with one exception.

"What's wrong, Jesse?" Adam asked.

The two old rivals had become good friends over the years, and remained in contact even as they played for different schools the season before.

The original D5er turned to face the former Hawk who had been sitting next to him in a booth, across from Connie and Guy. Jesse was unable to hide the disappointment in his sad brown eyes as they met Adam's.

"It's just that….we're moving to Florida next month," the D5er whispered.

Despite the low volume with which Jesse broke the news, all of the Ducks immediately ceased their conversations and trained their eyes upon him, their faces demanding an explanation. Jesse felt a knot in his stomach as he observed the reaction of his friends. This was the conversation that he had been avoiding all summer, hoping the impossible hope that his family would stay in Minnesota if only he just ignored the bad news.

"I'm sorry guys," Jesse continued. "I should have told you much sooner. My dad got a transfer to Tampa, and we're moving in the middle of August."

Charlie's eyebrows flew to the ceiling.

"Sorry, Charlie," Jesse offered. "I'm gonna miss your birthday."

Jesse looked down at the table, desperate to avoid the hurt looks of his friends. He began to hate himself for bursting their bubble when he felt a hand land softly on his shoulder. Turning to his left, Jesse saw a pair of sapphire eyes that looked uncharacteristically soft.

"You know, Jesse," Adam began. "Eden Hall is a _boarding_ school. You can still attend even if your family moves out of state; it's worth mentioning that to your dad."

Jesse eagerly nodded, grateful for the kernel of hope. There was still a chance that he could stay with the Ducks, and the 14-year old desperately clung to that hope. But he knew that his father would be tough to persuade. John Hall was a loving and devoted father, and Jesse would have to make the case of a lifetime to convince the Hall patriarch to allow him to attend school over a thousand miles away from home.

As if reading his former rival's thoughts, Adam continued.

"Look, we'll get as much information about Eden Hall as we can," he declared, looking to his teammates to include them in his plans. "We'll pump your dad so full of positive facts about the school that he'll have no choice but to let you attend."

The other Ducks immediately voiced their agreement with Adam's suggestion, prompting Jesse to smile. The Ducks had beaten the odds against the Hawks and against Iceland by flying together; and even the monstrous challenge of persuading his headstrong father seemed less daunting with the help of his friends.

Adam was so concerned about keeping Jesse in Minnesota for school that he had forgotten all about the unwelcome fact that Portman and Julie were about to re-enter his life. The soft-spoken center still had not gotten over his crush, even after a year of no communication. Nor had he forgotten about the comely goalie's apparent romance with the big Chicago-based defenseman. When Team USA had exchanged their final goodbyes after the campout, Adam had not bothered to ask Julie or Portman for their contact information.

 _They have each other, after all,_ he thought bitterly at the time.

But dealing with his freshly-mended heart would have to wait. With Jesse just weeks away from walking out of his life for good unless he took swift and decisive action, Adam Banks had more immediate concerns. He had never been the friend that he felt Jesse deserved, and Adam still hated himself for the way he behaved during those ugly first weeks after leaving the Hawks.

Adam's path forward was difficult, but uncomplicated: he would win-over the formidable John Hall, and in doing so, both redeem himself and keep Jesse where he belonged.

 _Cake Eater's not gonna let you down, man._

"What?" Jesse asked, amused by Adam's expression.

"Oh, nothing man. Eat your sundae. If you're gonna play for Eden Hall, we gotta get you bulked-up."

"Heh, sure thing...Cake Eater."

* * *

"Annoying Little Duckies," McGill seethed as he fired an orange pavement puck at the net in his driveway.

"It seems they can't help but interfere with us," Larson agreed.

The defenseman had been standing off to the side of the net on his rollerblades, watching McGill practice his slap-shot.

Paul Larson had grown a great deal over the past schoolyear, shooting up past six feet and towering over Jake McGill. With his increasingly dark hair and long, powerful frame, Paul Larson was beginning to look more and more like his Old Man. And McGill, like most boys who did their growing early, had found that his height had plateaued; so the big Hawk forward who had been such a tall elementary student was set to be a rather average high school student.

McGill's house was deserted, as per usual, and Larson had been keeping his old friend company while they absorbed the disappointing news about their playing situation for the coming school year.

Gordon Bombay, the JV Hockey Coach at Eden Hall, had persuaded the new Dean, John Buckley, to grant the 'Little Duckies' full scholarships to the prep school, thus displacing the original JV roster – which had included Larson and McGill, among others.

"But at least we get to keep our scholarships," Larson offered, trying to look on the bright side.

McGill nodded as he moved to fish the puck out of the net.

"For now, anyway," he agreed.

All of the kids who had gotten bounced off the JV roster to make room for the Ducks still got to keep their scholarship for the year and attend class. Then, they would be eligible to tryout as walk-ons during their sophomore year. Should they fail to make the cut, their scholarships would be withdrawn, and McGill's family would have to pay for their son to continue attending Eden Hall, while the less-affluent Larson would be forced to attend public school.

The defenseman was desperate to avoid that fate.

His father was sure to explode if Paul blew his opportunity at Eden Hall; and with the boy catching up to his father in size, such an explosion could trigger a fight to the death between the Larson men. Instinctively, Paul found that prospect exciting; but the more rational part of his mind was keen to avoid a fight to the death with his Old Man…at least until the day when he knew for certain that he could get away with it.

 _Just need a nice, quiet little place where no one will ever find the body._

He grinned as the image of a bludgeoned, dying Bill Larson ran through his head.

The prison guard who had ruled over Paul with an iron fist pathetically pleading for mercy, mercy that his son would deny before gleefully plunging the hammer into his skull one last time.

"Uh…Paul? You okay, man?"

Larson shook his head as he was drawn out of his morbid reverie.

"Of course."

"So with the Little Duckies coming to Eden Hall, I guess that means Banksie will be there too," McGill pointed out.

"And _you_ won't go anywhere near him," Larson hissed. "The last thing I need is for you to mess things up while I try to win him back."

McGill shook his head, but he was not about to argue with the defenseman. He could not wrap his mind around Larson's undying loyalty towards Adam Banks. In the three years since the star center's departure from the Hawks, Larson had seized whatever little opportunity that came his way to entice Adam back into the fold.

But none of it ever worked.

"I'm not gonna try to get between you two," McGill offered. "I think you're wasting your time with that little shit, but that's your business."

The forward teed-up and fired, this time hitting the crossbar. With McGill's streak of goals broken, it was now Larson's turn for shots, so the forward passed to the defenseman, who in turn got into position fifteen feet away from the net.

"It _is_ my business," Larson agreed. "And Adam's no little shit. We pushed him away. We just need his obnoxious Little Ducky 'friends' to push him back. And then he'll be mine...I mean... _ours_ again."

The defenseman drew back and fired.

The puck went straight through the middle of the net.

 _Nice._

But rather than fish his own puck out, he looked to his minion.

"A little help?"

"Oh, right," McGill nodded, then fished the puck out of the net before passing it back to Larson.

Larson received the puck and gave McGill a slight nod. The defenseman was pleased that despite their disagreement over Adam, McGill still knew his place as the junior partner. Now that Larson was the bigger of the two, he could use the threat of physical violence to crush McGill's will whenever the forward got too independent for his own good. As result, Larson was no longer limited to psychological warfare – though he still preferred it to violence.

As Larson teed-up for his next shot, he heard a duck call.

He turned to see the Minnesota-based _L_ _ittle Duckies_ skate by McGill's driveway in their Flying V. The image vexed him anyway, but seeing Adam in it was especially galling.

One image that was less-than-repulsive, however, was that of Connie Moreau.

Larson had always been aware of the brunette girl duck from their early Pee Wee days, but she never had much of an effect on him. For some reason, he was now feeling a strange draw toward her. The porcelain skin; the silky, chestnut hair; the honey brown eyes.

As he felt his thigh burn beneath the photo of Maria Larson in his front pocket, the boy felt the pull get stronger still.

 _Porcelain Goddess,_ he thought. _Beautiful, sweet Porcelain Goddess._

"Dumbass Ducks," McGill scoffed, prompting Larson to snap back to reality. "They think everyone wants to hear their gay little call."

Larson nodded.

"Oh well," the defenseman replied. "We'll have plenty of time to shove that call where the sun don't shine once school starts back up."

"Hell yeah!" McGill agreed. "Us against the world?"

"Us against the world!"

The defenseman flashed a genuine smile. He had of course been disappointed by the news that he would not be playing hockey this year; but as he thought about the arrival of his enemies at their new school, the young hunter grew excited at the prospect of stalking and dispatching his prey. A new school with new student blocs, new alliances to make and break, new relationships to exploit, and new twerps to impose his will upon….and those hated _L_ _ittle Duckies._

Larson let out a titter of evil glee.

* * *

The Ducks had gathered again at Mickey's, ostensibly to celebrate Charlie's 14th birthday.

Being the first week of August, the celebration was several days early, but Charlie and the others were keen to have the party before Jesse left for Florida. Adam and Jesse had failed in their persuasive efforts, and this gathering felt more like a going away party than a birthday party.

Having cried his eyes out when his father had put his foot down, Jesse resolved to be happy as he said goodbye to his beloved Ducks.

He had been genuinely excited that his friends would get a chance to play together, and he fought back against the natural, spiteful feeling that his situation had aroused. Other peoples' happiness can be a sweet thing when one gets to share in it, but Jesse was learning first hand how one group's happiness can be another person's sour grapes. But he pushed back against this.

Jesse had been the Alpha Duck for years, and he was not about to be remembered as the bitter, selfish Anti-Duck on his way out. So he made a point of wearing a big grin throughout the entire party.

As his friends joked and told stories of their separate adventures during the last school year, Jesse found that he no longer had to force his happiness – it was starting to feel natural. He even felt goodwill toward Russ Tyler – whom Jesse had found grating – the trash-talking Knucklepucker who would get to be with the Ducks in Minnesota while Jesse was adjusting to a whole new world in Florida.

Adam had taken his usual spot next to Jesse once they were in the booth, and he hardly said a word the entire time.

It was normal for Adam Banks to be quiet, but on this occasion, unhappy brooding complemented his silence. He had frequently thought back to his arrival on the Ducks, his violent treatment of Jesse, his eagerness to stay friends with the Hawks while he wore Duck Green, and the sinking feeling that he had not done nearly enough for Jesse over the years to make up for any of that.

Adam's natural reticence made it difficult for him to put into words just how much his friends meant to him, and this was doubly true in Jesse's case.

Because they had been such fierce rivals, Adam felt undeserving of Jesse's friendship, which made it even harder for him to express his feelings. He found the 'Cake Eater' teasing much easier to deal with than acts of kindness. Whether it was providing backup against the Hawks that day in the park, icing his bad wrist, sticking up for Adam and everyone else when Bombay had turned into Captain Blood, or just laughing at his jokes, Adam felt that he had gotten much more out of his friendship with Jesse than he had ever put into it.

This imbalance added to the center's discomfort. With Jesse about to pick up and go a thousand miles away, Adam would never have another chance to balance the scales. As he looked down at the slice of birthday cake that he had barely touched, Adam noticed a sheet of looseleaf paper being shoved in his direction.

"Yo, Cake Eater!"

Adam snapped out of his brooding.

"Yes?"

"Aren't you gonna give me your email address?"

"Oh, of course," Adam seized the pen Jesse offered and scribbled his address onto it.

Jesse chuckled as he looked down at the illegible hieroglyph. It turned out that Adam Banks, Perfect Hockey Player and Perfect Friend had a flaw after all – his penmanship was hideous. This revelation made the original D5er like his former rival even more. He was beginning to think that Adam was too perfect, so he was delighted to discover a flaw of some sort, however minor.

"Could you do that again, this time in English, please?" Jesse teased.

"Oh, right," Adam nodded, then re-wrote his email in a more legible script. "There you go."

"Thanks," Jesse nodded appreciatively.

The two were quiet for a few long seconds before Jesse spoke up again.

"You know, I've been thinking – you remember how you lost your number 9 when you came over to the Ducks?"

"Sure."

"And you're still obsessed with Mike Modano," Jesse added.

Adam chuckled.

"Am I that obvious?"

Jesse returned the grin.

"Yeah, you are. But that's cool. Anyway, I was thinking that when you get to Eden Hall, you could wear Number 9 again. You know…obviously I won't be wearing it."

Adam's eyes widened at the suggestion.

It had never occurred to him that his beloved number 9 was about to become available again. Three years earlier, when he had first put on his Duck 99, Adam wanted nothing more than to wear the number 9 again…as a Hawk. But as devoted as he still remained to Mike Modano, the number 9 had come to symbolize the Hawks and the Golden Trio to Adam – and a lot of memories that he would rather forget.

His stomach turned at the thought of going back to all of that.

"No thanks," Adam replied. "I'm not going back to my Hawk number."

Jesse chuckled at his friend's seriousness, which caused Adam to look hurt.

"Sorry," Jesse offered. "It's just that we all got over that Hawk thing a long time ago," he explained, looking to the Ducks who surrounded them. "Didn't we?"

" _YEAH!"_

Adam shrugged. Despite being teammates for two-and-a-half years at the Pee Wee level, and despite their shared experience at the Junior Goodwill Games, Adam had never been able to put his Hawk affiliation to bed in his own mind. Against his own will, there had even been days when he found himself missing Paul Larson and Jake McGill. This in turn led to feelings of guilt, shame, self-loathing, and above all, a sense of separateness from the Ducks.

Adam had always felt like an outsider on the team, even after they had embraced him.

But it seemed that all of this was only in his head.

"So you guys really think I'm a Duck?" Adam asked the group.

Confused looks shot up all around.

"Well, yeah," Charlie confirmed. "You played with us for almost three seasons. And McGill gave you a concussion. I always just figured you'd never want to go back to the Hawks after that.

The other Ducks murmured their agreement.

A relieved smile washed over Adam's face. His isolation had only been a figment of his imagination. He never could believe that the Ducks could give him such easy and complete loyalty so willingly. With the Hawks, it had always been "what can you do for me?" Of course, his friendship with Larson and McGill felt like more than the typically Hawkish _quid pro quo_ , but those relationships had blown up spectacularly and completely.

If a friendship like the Golden Trio could dissolve so easily, it only seemed natural that the bond between Adam and the Ducks could not be all that strong.

"So are you gonna wear number 9 again?" Charlie asked.

Adam paused to consider. If Number 9 was not as toxic to his friends as he had thought it was, then where was the harm? And he could not deny that he really loved that number. But would wearing it be disrespectful to Jesse, even if he _had_ offered it?

A full thirty seconds later, Adam gave his answer.

"I guess you could say that, Charlie." Adam said before looking to Jesse. "I'll wear a 9. In fact, I'll wear _two_ 9s. One for each of us," he clarified, alluding to the two 9s in 99.

Jesse grinned as he gave Adam an appreciative hug.

Eventually, Jesse had to leave his Ducks one last time. Amid all the hugs and promises to stay in touch, there was not a single dry eye among the bunch. And no eyes were wetter than the sapphire ones belonging to Adam Banks.

* * *

Dean John Buckley peered over his bifocals and flashed a disappointed schoolmaster look at his former pupil and current JV hockey coach, Gordon Bombay.

Despite having taken office just two months earlier, Buckley had already mastered the "headmaster's glare." His pale blue eyes studied Gordon, who had been sitting across from him in the Dean's private office. Buckley had made his mark on his new territory, moving out all of the scowling marble busts belonging to his predecessor and bringing in his colony of Brazilian fire ants along with a hanging skeleton.

Buckley had been the school's biology teacher for over thirty years, and some habits just could not be broken – including his penchant for wearing nerdy red bowties and matching suspenders. But his stately head of parted gray hair, chiseled face, and tall, trim frame made him look the part of dignified headmaster while his clothes still screamed 'eccentric science teacher'.

"Look, Dean, I'm sorry to drop this on you so suddenly," Gordon offered. "And I really hope that it won't jeopardize the Ducks' scholarships."

"It won't," Buckley replied. "I'm just disappointed, Gordon."

The younger man let out a sigh.

"I know."

Gordon had accepted a six-figure salary with the Junior Goodwill Committee and was due to leave for California soon. This had not been part of the plan. Gordon was meant to coach his popular Mighty Ducks at Eden Hall and bring a wave of adoring press with him, thus enhancing the school's prestige and strengthening Buckley's position as Dean.

Buckley had already been having difficulties with his Board of Trustees, and he needed to do something big to silence the dissenters. He had fought Tom Riley tooth-and-nail to extend scholarships to the Ducks, and now Gordon Bombay was about to leave him high and dry.

"I know, this isn't the best way for me to show my gratitude," Gordon conceded. "But I've got a truly _excellent_ replacement lined up – the best, in fact."

"Oh?"

"Ever hear of Ted Orion?"

Buckley nodded.

"Sure. Retired wing for the North Stars," the Dean answered. "Not the best guy on the ice, but one of the smartest – and one of the toughest. He still lives in Minnesota?"

"Yes, he does," Gordon confirmed. "He stayed behind when the North Stars moved to Dallas, for his daughter. Oh, and that's another thing – Ted really wants to coach here, but he won't do it unless the arena is made handicap-accessible."

The headmaster's glare returned as the former pupil mentioned the need for expensive new construction.

"Don't worry, sir," Gordon pleaded. "I'll pay for it out of my own pocket if you agree to sign Ted."

"Heh, well if we can get that little promise notarized, I'll give him a call today," Buckley offered.

"Deal!" Gordon agreed, standing up and extending his hand, which Buckley shook.

"But you'll make it for the team's introduction, won't you?" Buckley asked. "I've got a huge press conference planned, and I'm sure your kids would love to hear your plans from your own mouth."

Gordon winced slightly. Breaking the news to his players would be a thousand times more difficult than it had been to his soon-to-be former boss. But the younger man knew that he owed it to his kids, tempting though it was to quietly slip away.

"Of course I will. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good," Buckley smiled broadly. "Now, would you be kind enough to give me Ted's contact information?" He asked, extending a yellow legal pad and a fountain pen toward his outgoing JV coach.

"Sure," Gordon grabbed the pen and scribbled the information down.

"Thank you," Buckley took the pad. "Now we'll just have the secretary type up your agreement to pay for the ramps, then we'll head off to the notary's, and we'll be all squared!"

Gordon chuckled.

"The notary, really? Where's the trust?"

Buckley flashed a faux-affable grin as he began ushering Gordon into the outer office, where a secretary was plugging away on her computer.

"I took your word of honor before, only to have you walk out on me three weeks before the start of term."

"Heh, fair enough," Gordon conceded with an impish smile.


	21. School Daze

**Chapter Twenty-One: School Daze**

It was a warm, sunny day in late August as the Mighty Ducks gathered around a podium in front of the steps to the Main Academic Building at Eden Hall Academy. The kids all donned their white and eggplant jerseys for Dean Buckley's press conference – the boys with dress shirts, neckties and slacks underneath, and the girls with dresses. Gordon had secured hockey scholarships for all of the Team USA alumni from the 1995 Junior Goodwill Games and was set to introduce the players to his old alma mater.

Set in a woody suburb of the Twin Cities, Eden Hall boasted a sprawling and pictureseque campus that included a mix of Neo-Classical and Neo-Gothic architecture, an expansive athletics complex with a state of the art hockey arena, well-manicured courtyards, well-lit walkways, stables, walking trails in the woods, and even its own lake.

But amidst all the shiny new facilities, the faint aroma of ancient single malts could be detected among the stodgy old Trustees who sat ashen-faced in the front row of the assembled guests. They cared little for change and even less for flashiness, and now the ever-colorful Mighty Ducks were invading their school.

Adam knew these people – if not by person, at least by type. He was used to getting dressed-up and being paraded for their approval, and the experience of kowtowing to the country club set made him long for the hockey arena like nothing else could. But given that the Mighty Ducks were about to fly together again after a year-long haitus, even Adam could manage a few reasonably convincing smiles for these people. He took his place in his customary spot in the center of the back row as the rest of his teammates got into position on the steps behind the podium.

Julie froze as she saw Adam Banks standing at the top step, which had the effect of making him look even taller than his actual six-two frame. He had filled out a bit since the Goodwill Games, but in a good way; and he had taken to combing his sandy brown hair in the curtain style that crowned the heads of most of the decade's male pop stars.

Seeing Julie approach, Adam managed a 'glamorously aloof' chin nod, causing her to blush with a grin before she got settled in front of him. Before the flowery smell of Julie's hair could make him faint, Adam heard a voice speak into the microphone.

" **Please welcome to the podium,"** a Trustee began **"the Head Coach, and leader of the Mighty Ducks, Gordon Bombay."**

Adam found it odd that Gordon was not being introduced as the Head Coach of the Junior Varsity team, but shrugged and joined in the applause. Eden Hall appeared to be pulling out all the stops to make the Ducks feel welcome, so he was not going to complain.

" **Thank you,"** Gordon offered, taking his place at the podium in a slate gray business suit and maroon tie. **"It's a great honor to be here today to introduce you to a truly great group of kids. Sure they can be a little rambunctious. They've run me ragged and played more than their fair share of pranks. I still haven't forgotten about those eggs…"**

Small, knowing laughs rose from the audience.

"… **but I hung in there, and they hung in there for me, and we became the Quack Attack, the Flying V, and the Bash Brothers. I've never had a better time. These kids are winners, each and every one of them. But more than that, these are good people. I hope that they enrich and enliven your school and your lives as they have mine."**

Adam chuckled slightly.

 _So dramatic. It almost sounds like he's leaving us._

But the center brushed that thought aside and continued listening to his coach.

" **And now I hand you over to the capable hands of my old biology teacher, and the current Headmaster of Eden Hall, Dean Buckley. Dean…"**

The older man made his way to the podium in a charcoal gray blazer with the school crest on the breast pocket, a matching pair of slacks, and a gold-and-black polka-dotted bowtie.

As the Headmaster began speaking in his slightly faded Southern accent, Adam noticed a pleasant, chocolaty aroma. Scanning the crowd, he noticed that Hans, the old skate merchant, had lit his pipe and was happily puffing away next to Gordon and Casey. Gordon's presence in the audience was another thing that struck Adam as odd.

 _Why isn't he standing up here, next to us?_

Combined with Gordon's rather dramatic-sounding speech, this observation made Adam uneasy, and he was unable to pay attention to the Dean's speech. Something about glory, championships, and Warriors. The center knew enough about his new school to know that glory and championships were expected of Eden Hall Warriors. No matter how good the regular season, no matter how dazzling the individual performances, a season was considered an abject failure at Eden Hall if it failed to produce State – or at least Division – Championships.

As soon as Buckley finished his speech and the crowd began to disperse, Gordon approached Charlie and asked for a word in private. As the Minnesota Miracle Man walked his longtime Captain toward the school lake, Casey asked the rest of the Ducks to stay where they were. Their coach wanted a word with them, once he had taken care to discuss things with Charlie first, she explained.

The Ducks agreed readily enough, and chatted softly while they awaited Charlie and Gordon's return. As they milled about, Adam felt a fist slam into his upper arm with more force than he appreciated.

"Hey, Banksie," Portman greeted him with a mischievous grin.

 _The goon doesn't know his own strength._

Adam rubbed his arm, but willed himself to smile at the Bash Brother with whom he had long clashed – if only in his own mind. Portman and Adam had been openly friendly to each other for the most part. But Adam still nursed a grudge against the Chicagoan who had appeared to have won the affections of his crush the previous summer.

The center did his best to not let this resentment show.

"What's up, Portman?"

The defenseman's grin disappeared as he took in his stately surroundings.

"Heh, a bit high on the ol' blue blood scale, don't ya think?"

Adam nodded, but noticed that the cocky Bash Brother appeared genuinely uneasy.

"I guess," the center replied. "None of it changes the game though. Just play your best and forget about all these little trust fund babies."

Portman's grin returned.

"What, like you?"

Feeling self-conscious, Adam looked at the ground as he murmured his reply.

"Yeah, I guess."

Adam felt another sharp pain, this time in his other arm as Portman appeared to take it upon himself to ensure that the preppy center had no good arms.

"I'm just messin' with you," the defenseman offered.

The gritty Chicagoan had felt like a fish out of water in these ritzy surroundings, but he found reassurance in the most unlikely of sources: Adam Banks. Portman never had anything against the star center, but Adam seemed awfully quiet, a bit of a loner. The dynamic between the defenseman and the center was nothing like the effortless chemistry that Portman enjoyed with Fulton, but Portman was grateful for Adam's words.

Before Adam could respond, he heard a soft, sweet voice speak up.

"Hey, guys!" Julie beamed. "What were you talking about?"

But Portman was more interested in hanging out with his Bash Brother than with the girl who had spurned him at the Goodwill Games, so he began to move away.

"Just how much I wanted to hang out with Fulton," he answered before taking off in his Bash Brother's direction.

Julie turned and followed the departing figure with her eyes, giving Portman's back a confused look.

"Heh, charming as always," she declared before turning back to Adam. "So what's up?"

With his crush actually talking to him, Adam's glamorously aloof facade crumbled.

He was back to being the shy boy with a cracking voice as he took in the sight of Julie Gaffney. Her long blonde hair had darkened a shade during their year away, and she let it flow freely behind her back without any scrunchies or hair pins. Though she had a fair complexion, the white of her jersey had the effect of making her skin glow. And of course, there were the eyes – that lovely shade of emerald that could be relied upon to make Adam stammer like a fool.

 _I just need her to smile and I'll become a mute._

As if reading his thoughts, Julie flashed her dazzling white smile at the quiet center; but it soon gave way to a worried frown.

"Something wrong, Adam?"

As he struggled to verbalize a coherent response, Adam noticed out of the corner of his eye that a rather grim-faced Bombay was approaching the team. Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

"I…I…I think Coach wants to tell us something," Adam stammered, pointing towards Gordon.

"Oh, okay," she replied.

The goalie moved away from the center and towards her coach, much to Adam's relief. He had noticed that Charlie had not returned with their coach; either Bombay had gone and dumped Charlie in the lake, or he said something that caused the Captain to storm off. Recalling Gordon's strange speech and his return to the audience, Adam braced himself for some bad news.

* * *

Several days later, having settled in on campus, the out-of-state Ducks gathered at the courtyard separating the boys' and girls' dormitories. As newcomers to the Ducks, Julie, Luis, Russ, Kenny, and Dwayne formed their own little sub-clique on the team. But one of their number was missing: Dean Portman.

Almost as soon as Gordon had informed the Ducks that he had accepted the position of Director of Personnel for the Junior Goodwill Games, Portman made his way to the dorms and got packing. And before any of his teammates could talk him out of leaving, he caught the next train for Chicago. The Bash Brother had been uncomfortable enough at Eden Hall with Gordon around, losing his coach made the stuffy old prep school even more intolerable to the blue collar Chicagoan.

As the remaining out-of-staters began their walk to the Main Academic Building, Russ tried to get their minds off of Portman's departure.

" **You know, I think this place is running _very low_ on the 'Bruthas Quotient',"** he declared, observing his lily white schoolmates.

" **Yeah,"** Julie self-consciously agreed, aware of her own fair features. **"Hey, I wanna know who this new Coach Orion is. My dad said that if I didn't like him I could come right home."**

Russ chuckled.

" **That's nice,"** he replied. **"My dad said I better stay in on scholarship, or he'd whoop my butt."**

" **I heard from a guy in the dorm that he played for the Minnesota North Stars, and got suspended for punching out his own coach,"** Luis volunteered, his voice having dropped an octave during his year back home in Miami.

" **You mean the** ** _Dallas_** **Stars,"** Dwayne corrected the speedster. **"I heard he punched out a fan."**

As the out-of-staters continued to exchange rumors about their new coach and other trifles – including an extended debate on whether Kung Fu was a Buddhist or Trappist monk – Charlie began rounding up his fellow in-staters, beginning with Fulton. The burly defenseman had been taking out his Portman-centered grief on some pucks, slapping them into the street with even more force than usual.

He despaired that without his Bash Brother, he couldn't be one himself, and wondered aloud if that made him the **"** **Bash Man,"** or **"Mr. Bash,"** or other such silliness.

With the departures of Gordon and Portman, the Ducks seemed ready to begin their freshman year at Eden Hall with a whimper rather than a bang.

Nevertheless, Charlie and Fulton gathered the rest of the in-staters and led them on their rollerblades to school. Having already been introduced to the local press before classes had begun, it was now time for the Ducks to be introduced to the faculty and student body at Eden Hall. But even that looked set to go awry, as Goldberg careened away from his friends and struggled to get his blades under control.

As Charlie gave chase, the out-of-state Ducks settled into their seats in the school auditorium.

" **Hey, you know what?"** A voice from the row behind asked rhetorically.

The out-of-staters turned to see the patrician features of a dark-haired young man with gray eyes, high cheek bones, and a small mouth. Rick Riley, Captain of the Varsity hockey team, scion of an old family, and self-declared King of the School could not hide the disgust he felt toward these interlopers.

" **You** ** _Ducks_** **don't belong here at Eden Hall,"** he declared.

" **What?"** Russ demanded.

Dwayne, always good-natured and willing to give the benefit of the doubt, moved to defuse the tension.

" **Hey, easy Russ,"** Cowboy assured his friend. **"He probably just thinks we're someone else,"** he extended his hand toward a large goon with a blond flattop. **"Hey, I'm Dwayne. We're the new hockey team. And you are?"**

The goon, named Cole, removed the gum that he had been chewing and placed it into Dwayne's outstretched palm.

" **Varsity,"** Riley answered. **"The** ** _only_** **hockey team. State Champs. You know, my little brother lost his JV slot when they brought you…yo-yo's in here."**

" **He probably wasn't good enough,"** Julie scoffed.

Riley leaned in toward the goalie, causing her to recoil slightly.

" **See, that's my dad,"** the Varsity Captain pointed to a bald, white-bearded gentleman on the stage next to Dean Buckley. **"He's going to get the Board to revoke your scholarships. Just you wait."**

" ** _That's_** **your dad?"** Russ asked. **"Nice outfit, did it come with a yacht?"**

The Ducks giggled while Cole made an unamused mock laugh.

Eventually Buckley went to the podium and began the traditional beginning-of-the-year speech. Given that it was his first as Headmaster, he took care to thank each Trustee individually, then went into detail about Eden Hall's distinguished history. As his weary students began dozing off, Buckley got down to brass tacs and worked his way toward welcoming the Ducks.

" **Since its inception in 1903, Eden Hall Academy has taken pride in its illustrious tradition of excellence. Yet, as we approach the coming millennium, we dare not shrink from the specter of inevitable change…"**

Dwayne raised a confused eyebrow.

" **What'd he say?"** He asked Russ.

" **Something about a** ** _shrinking sphincter_** **,"** Russ quipped, causing Julie to giggle.

Outside, Charlie tried catching-up to Goldberg – through a park, past an angry pit bull, around oncoming traffic and over a bridge. After an epic jump over the guard rail, the pair of Ducks landed and re-joined their fellow in-staters on their trip to school.

The in-staters were running late when they finally made their way through the main entrance of the campus; but Buckley was long-winded, so they still had time. Nevertheless, Charlie took care to lead his teammates through a short cut behind the stage.

" **We have all made a change for the future,"** Buckley continued. **"And so today, after much debate on both sides…we proudly open our doors via full scholarships to a truly gifted group of student-athletes. So will you please join me in giving a big, rousing Warrior welcome to the Gold Medal winners of the Junior Goodwill Games…"**

The Headmaster was interrupted by Goldberg's shriek from backstage. The red curtain behind the podium came crashing down as the in-state Ducks tumbled onto the stage. Charlie managed to pull the curtain away, and looked up at the shocked Dean with a sheepish smile.

" **Hi…,"** Captain Duck began. **"We're the Ducks!"**

The student body burst into laughter, but the unamused headmaster ordered the Ducks to his office.

As the Ducks waited for the Dean, they checked out the little knick-knacks that he had in his office. A picture on the bookshelf showed Buckley walking next to Newt Gingrich, the Speaker of the House of Representatives.

" **Hey, check it out,"** Averman advised his teammates as he examined the photo. **"He knows Wayne Newton!"**

" **Charlie, man this is not a good start to our year,"** Ken fretted.

" **Don't worry Kenny,"** Charlie assured him. **"These prepsters aren't going do anything to us."**

Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie spotted a large, free-standing ant colony.

" **Hey, check it out!"** He enthused. **"Antsville!"**

His teammates gathered around, impressed by the display. They found it so absorbing that they did not hear Dean Buckley creep up on them.

" **You can learn a lot from ants,"** he declared from the other side of the ant farm, causing the startled students to recoil with a gasp.

" **These are Brazilian fire ants,"** Buckley continued. **"They can teach you a lot about successful societal structure. See,"** he gestured toward the queen. **"There's one queen in there, and the rest are dedicated worker ants. Everybody pulls their weight, nobody complains, there's harmony, there's growth – same thing here at Eden Hall! Only** ** _you_** **are the workers, the backbone!"**

" **And you're the Queen?"** Russ teased.

Buckley frowned as the Ducks chuckled. He walked over to his desk and took a seat. Apart from a folder, a green leather blotter, a paper calendar, a telephone, and two erect fountain pens on a stand, the shiny oak desk was all but spotless.

"I know Coach Bombay ran a rather loose ship," the Dean declared from his imposing chair. "But the faculty here, they don't have Coach's…oh how shall I put it? _Free spirit._ The decision to grant you your scholarships was not without controversy, and the Board expects great things from you. So work hard, take your studies and your game seriously…and do your best not to wind up in here again." He gestured toward his desk.

His words of warning were quite true. He had already received an earful from Tom Riley, head of the Alumni Committee and a senior Trustee, after the Ducks' auditorium antics. If the rambunctious players did not rein in their tendency toward rowdiness, their time at Eden Hall would be a short one.

As the Ducks murmured their agreement, Buckley retrieved a stack of hall passes from a drawer. The Dean seemed like a nice enough man – if slightly eccentric, but the Ducks were already weary of their stuffy new surroundings. Charlie in particular was desperate to see things loosen up. He only hoped that Bombay's replacement had a sense of fun.

After he finished writing up the hall passes, Buckley sent the Ducks on their way to class, and the kids soon discovered that the academic standards at Eden Hall were more rigorous than anything they had previously experienced. Dr. Madigan in particular seemed quite fond of quizzes and exams, especially those of the surprise variety. And while it could not be denied that Dr. Barber was highly knowledgeable and passionate about history, the kids found his enthusiasm for dwarf puppets disconcerting.

Eager to get away from 'Dwarf Man,' Charlie practically sprinted into the hall once the bell rang. He had been wearing his classic green-and-gold Duck jersey as opposed to Warrior red. As he made his way down the staircase and toward his next class, he was stopped by a pretty brunette who wore a long-sleeved teal shirt beneath an open floral-patterned shirt.

" **Hi,"** she greeted him. **"Will you sign a petition?"**

Charlie was immediately taken aback by the striking contrast between Linda Tompkins' long, dark hair and her bright, baby blue eyes. With a nice, proportionate build and fair skin that was clearer than most of her peers, she was definitely on the pretty side. All of this had rendered Captain Duck momentarily speechless.

" **Uhhh…"**

She responded with a broad, pearly white smile that did not help the poor boy's case.

But he willed himself to snap out of it.

" **Uh, yeah. Sure! What's it for?"**

" **We're demanding that the Board change the demeaning 'Warrior' name."**

" **Well, 'Warriors' isn't so bad, is it? I mean you got the Indians, the Braves, the Redskins, the Blackhawks…"**

The girl flashed a knowing grin.

" **You're a jock, aren't you?"**

" **Yeah, I play hockey!"** Charlie enthused. **"In fact…I'm the Captain of the new JV team,"** he leaned in with a boast, expecting her to be impressed.

" **Forget about it,"** she replied. **"You Warrior jocks stick together."**

" **But I'm not a Warrior, I'm a Duck!"** he protested as Linda disappeared.

* * *

The JV team made their way to the ice at Eden Hall Arena and waited for their turn to practice while the Varsity team finished up. The new arrivals were struck not only by the obvious skill of their older counterparts, but by the scores of red State Championship banners that hung from the rafters.

After a brief confrontation with the JV players, Coach Wilson ushered his Varsity players into their locker room, leaving the new arrivals alone on the ice.

Their new coach had yet to arrive, but Charlie urged Dwayne to go ahead and try to round everyone up with his lasso. After several minutes of skating around the young rancher, the Ducks' traditional pre-practice routine was broken up by a tall, trim, and rather severe-looking man with blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a high forehead. The man, who JV immediately understood to be their new coach, was dressed in black sweatpants and a red-and-gray NHL Player's Association sweater.

" **My name's Coach Orion,"** he announced. **"You can call me 'Coach,' or 'Coach Orion'."**

" **And you can call me 'Charlie',"** the boy breezily declared as he extended his hand toward his new coach.

It would remain unshaken.

" **That must be what the 'C' on your jersey stands for,"** Orion deadpanned. **"It sure doesn't stand for 'Captain'."**

Once underway, practice did not get any less uncomfortable. Orion ordered Charlie to do laps indefinitely after the boy had talked back to him, and made it clear to the rest of JV that their Duck tricks and gimmicks would not work at the high school level. The retired hockey pro informed his squad that they would learn to play two-way hockey, with special attention given to defense.

Although her new coach was demanding, Julie took an instant liking to Orion – as he appeared to recognize and appreciate her talents. During scoring drills, it was clear that Julie was the superior goalie, as she blocked everything that came her way, while everyone scored at will against Goldberg.

After a grueling 90-minute session, the JV team hobbled back into their locker room, exhausted and weary. Orion wasted no time in posting the new positions and informing his players that a B-average or higher would be required to play. While Fulton and Russ were slightly disappointed in their line assignments, Goldberg was stunned by his loss of the starting spot to Julie.

And Adam was shocked by his Varsity assignment.

The former Hawk thought back to his previous involuntary departure from a team – and all of the ugly events that followed. But the Ducks were different, he tried to tell himself. They had even told him over the summer that they had gotten over his Hawk past. Surely they wouldn't begrudge him his Varsity status...

 _...would they?_

But Charlie was in no mood to offer Adam any reassurances. Captain Duck had his own issues to deal with – namely Orion's move to deny Charlie the team's captaincy, at least for the time being. Charlie's mood darkened, and his teammates took care to give him a wide berth. No one dared to go anywhere near him while they changed back into their street clothes.

With all of the new and uncomfortable developments, Charlie was not the only one who found himself in no mood to chat. A brooding pall had swept over the locker room, and no words were exchanged – causing Adam to feel even more apprehensive about his situation.

The quiet center was the first one dressed and out of the locker room, and upon exiting, he discovered a new teammate waiting for him in a red-and-white Varsity jacket.

"Hey, Banks," the tall, willowy boy with brown hair and green eyes greeted Adam.

"Hey."

"I'm Scott Vanderbilt," Adam's visitor began, extending a hand which Adam shook. "But everyone around here calls me 'Scooter.' I'm the Varsity goalie."

"Adam Banks."

"Yes, I know," Scooter acknowledged with an easy smile. "Rick, our Captain, wanted me to welcome you to Varsity," the goalie explained.

Rick Riley disliked Adam Banks even before he had the chance to meet the younger boy. Riley knew that Adam's older brother Michael was a star player at Eden Hall's arch-rival, the Blake School. While Adam was not the plebeian that the rest of JV was in Riley's eyes, he was definitely the wrong kind of patrician. Scooter knew all of this, but took it upon himself to make Adam feel like one of the guys.

And if Adam just happened to give the Varsity goalie some inside information on a comely JV goalie, what could be the harm?

* * *

Charlie walked into Hans' skate shop through the back door to the sounds of Scandinavian folk music from an old record player. Even over the sound of the music and the whine of his skate sharpener, Hans could still hear his visitor.

" **School was not so fun today, eh Charlie?"** The old skate merchant asked without turning around.

" **How'd you know it was me?"**

" **Only two people can open a door so silently"** Hans explained as he got a ketchup bottle into position. **"You, and Gordon. Now just one more pass…ACK! Oh, I've really done it this time, Charlie. Get me a tourniquet."**

But Charlie could see through the ruse immediately and tossed Hans a towel without feeling a tinge of concern.

" **Knock it off, Hans,"** the boy began, eyeing the bottle of ketchup. **"Stop trying to cheer me up."**

After cleaning up his hands, the old man grinned mischievously, squirting some ketchup into the air. The skate merchant had definitely aged over the last three years. His hairline had receded, and the wrinkles on his craggy face had deepened considerably. But his bright blue Scandinavian eyes remained as quick and alert as ever; and his mischievous grin could not be suppressed.

" **School is a nightmare,"** Charlie sighed. **"Especially our new coach. Have you ever heard of Ted Orion?"**

" **Yes, yes he left the North Stars when he was still in his prime."**

" **This guy is no Duck."**

" **Perhaps you should show him the way, Charlie."**

" **He doesn't exactly seem open to new learning experiences."**

" **The question is…are** ** _you?"_** Hans asked with a thrust of an index finger.


	22. Hawks, Crocodiles, and Teenagers

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Hawks, Crocodiles, and Teenagers**

 _Feeding time at the zoo,_ Larson thought as he emerged from the lunch line and surveyed the school dining hall.

It was only the second day of classes, and the former Hawk was still getting a feel for the rival cliques that made up the student body at his new school. Over by the long, sunny windows sat the Beautiful People – mainly Eden Hall Cheerleaders and a few ex-jocks who failed to maintain the required grade point average to play their sport.

Speaking of the Jocks, they were easily the school's largest clique; but they were divided among different teams, and this lack of cohesion made the clique surprisingly weak. Despite their common jock-ness, the football/hockey rivalry was famously vicious, and new tensions within the hockey program between Varsity and JV created more intra-tribal warfare still.

Larson spotted an uncomfortable-looking Adam sitting with the Varsity hockey team.

 _Looks promising…a wounded deer always returns home. Or dies trying._

In addition to the Jocks, there was the well-connected Preps, or 'Preppies.' Well-dressed and haughty, these family scions and future titans of industry seemed to own everything – including the school's officials. Though they lacked Jock muscle, the Preps' influence made them formidable. But as he overheard the inane chattering of pretentious imbeciles, Larson did not feel intimidated.

 _They're probably not any quicker on their webbed feet than they are with their 'wit.' Ah well._

Not that the old Hawk held that against them, of course.

 _A friend in need is a friend indeed._

Along the wall opposite the windows, and beneath the scowling portraits of headmasters past sat the Goths. These black-clad misfits made a mockery of their genteel surroundings with their piercings, dyed black hair, and passion for Nirvana.

 _Not a powerhouse, this bunch...but probably smarter than they look.  
_

And located just in front of the lunch line for security purposes, the Nerds – known euphemistically as the 'AV Club' – held court. The smallest, weakest, and most despised of Eden Hall's tribes, the Nerds managed to be vulnerable and supremely devious at the same time. Navigating the crocodile-infested swamp that was Eden Hall took real resourcefulness.

 _And people that greasy are obviously slippery as all hell,_ Larson reasoned.

He knew that he would have to tread carefully with the Nerds. While their security needs gave Larson an opening, their cunning could well be the single greatest hazard in a school that was full of them. Taking in his treacherous surroundings, the young Machiavellian felt right at home.

Sensing that he was being scrutinized, Larson turned and locked eyes with one of the football players. Rather than look away, Larson held his gaze, daring the football player with his ebony eyes to confront him. But the footballer lost his nerve and turned his attention back to his meal.

With the familiar mix of satisfaction and disappointment that characterized most of Larson's interactions, he took his tray and made his way to the table that belonged to the Lone Wolves. This eclectic mix of male and female loners was not a proper clique, but since they didn't fit in anywhere else, they ended up sitting together. There was no group hierarchy among the Wolves, and they typically had little to say to each other during meals. But Larson could sense an unspoken bond between them, and he had no doubt that if one of their number found themselves in a jam, the other Wolves would be quick to extend a helping hand.

He set his tray down at the end of the table, not breathing a word of greeting to any of his fellow loners, but not sensing any hostile vibes either. These kids were just very quiet. Linda Tompkins, having been expelled from the cheerleaders' table, took a seat on the end opposite the former Hawk.

Larson did not have any classes with McGill this year, but they were roommates and shared a lunch period. Still, the former Hawk defenseman missed his silver-eyed companion, and as he forked his peas, he scanned the dining hall for his longtime friend. To an outside observer, Paul Larson would have given the appearance of a devoted dog eagerly waiting by the window for the arrival of his beloved master.

The thought occurred to Larson, and it made him shudder. _  
_

He pointedly turned to his meal and ate in silence. A few moments later, he heard two lunch trays simultaneously land on the table. He looked up to see Jake McGill and some brunette-haired girl taking their seats across from him.

"Hey, Iceman!"

"Jake," Larson nodded shortly before facing the girl. "And you are?"

"Vicki Worthington," the green-eyed girl flashed a charming smile while extending her hand across the table.

Larson surprised the girl – and Jake – by kissing her hand, rather than shaking it. McGill's eyes widened in shock, confirming Larson's suspicions.

"Paul Larson," the ex-defenseman replied. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. You'll have to forgive me, I don't know _richspeak_."

Vicki rolled her eyes, but chortled politely. With an old money name like 'Worthington,' and a preppy blouse and skirt, Vicki was used to a bit of reverse elitism.

"Shouldn't you be over there?" Larson asked her, indicating the Preppy table with his head.

"But I wanted to hang out with Jake," she grinned. "And to meet his best friend who he can't stop talking about."

Larson could see the adoring look in McGill's eyes, and did _not_ like where this was going, so he changed gears.

"I'm sorry, Vicki," he offered. "I was rude just then. Please, allow me make it up to you," Larson continued, rising from the table. "Follow me over to the dessert and I'll get you anything you want."

McGill's silvery eyes narrowed in anger. It appeared that Larson had faked rudeness toward Vicky in order to give him an excuse to treat her like a girlfriend. The ex-forward had only met the preppy girl the day before, but he was already crushing hard, and he did not welcome competition from other guys. Especially from the guy he regarded as his best friend.

"Really, Paul," McGill protested. "You don't have to do that."

Larson flashed a wry smile, amused by his friend's seriousness.

 _Yep. He's definitely into her. Well, we'll take care of that.  
_

"There's no need to be so serious," Larson replied. "Can't I do something nice for a person that I was rude to?"

These words reassured McGill – to a point. It was possible that Larson wasn't really moving in on his girl after all. But McGill knew that his old friend was a clever and sneaky bastard, and he couldn't shake the feeling that Larson was up to something.

"Come along, Vicki," Larson began. "If we wait too long, that fat Varsity slob will have eaten everything," he exhorted, alluding to Cole's voracious appetite.

She nodded and got to her feet before McGill could protest any further. Victoria 'Vicki' Worthington may have been rich, pampered, and used to getting nice things, but still – free dessert was free dessert. McGill watched pathetically as Larson led Vicki back to the lunch line.

The former defenseman suppressed a laugh as he walked past the JV hockey table, where he observed Greg Goldberg offer Julie Gaffney **"nutritional advice,"** along with a massive tray full of fatty desserts. But the female goalie appeared to be taking kindly to this gesture.

 _Idiot._

"You know, Vicki," Larson began once they got in line, "it's really nice of you, what you're doing for Jake."

"I'm just getting to know him," she shrugged. "It's not like we're getting married or anything."

Though in all honesty, she was _very_ interested in getting to know Jake McGill – both inside and out.

"Of course," Larson agreed. "It's just that…being seen with a pretty girl…it really helps Jake, you know? I mean, the poor guy still can't even admit it to himself."

"What are you talking about?"

Larson put on his 'worried face' before making his reply.

"Oh, you don't know do you?" He looked around before leaning in and dropping his voice to a whisper. "Look, Jake is gay. Don't tell anyone – you know how nasty and misunderstanding people can be."

A look of shock washed over Vicki's face.

"Like I was saying," Larson continued as he pulled away and stood normally. "It's nice of you to help Jake keep up appearances. It's not easy for guys like him. Especially around all these macho jock assholes."

Vicki was quiet as they approached the desserts.

"Here you go," Larson grabbed a double-fudge brownie and moved to pay for it while Vicki mulled over what she had just been told.

 _Jake_ does _like to talk about this guy…a lot. Maybe he really_ is _gay._

She followed Larson back into the dining hall. Their path back to the Lone Wolves' table took them over to the Varsity Hockey table, where Cole looked up like a hungry hound that had picked up the scent of red meat. But Larson's pitiless onyx eyes locked onto the Varsity defenseman.

"Don't even try it, fatass."

Cole's blue eyes widened in shock. The bully wasn't used to being told what to do, and was caught off guard. His captain, Rick Riley, was about to say something to Larson but he too was rendered speechless by those dark, cruel eyes. Despite being a freshman, Paul Larson was roughly the same size as the Varsity hockey captain; and he was either unafraid of Varsity or he was the world's finest actor.

The two made it past the Varsity table without incident.

Vicki's thoughts about McGill were quickly pushed to the side by Larson's ballsy display. Though tall and strong, Paul Larson's coarse features were far from hansdsome, but Vicki felt a magnetism that she could not define radiate from him. And he could tell that she was feeling it. For a moment, Larson was tempted to invite her to his dorm later. Nothing could establish his dominance over McGill by being alone in a bedroom with McGill's own crush.

 _Not to mention, satisfy one or two_ other _needs._

The former defenseman smiled wickedly at the thought, but quickly returned to a more neutral expression as they approached their table.

"See, Jake?" Larson asked as he took his seat across from Vicki and McGill. "We're back. And we were so quick, we didn't even have time to makeout."

McGill's fist clenched while Vicki turned beet red.

Larson put on his 'concerned counselor' face.

"Now, Jake," he began. "There's no need for you to keep putting on the act. Vicki understands."

McGill's angry expression gave way to confusion.

"Understands what?"

"Exactly," Larson replied. "I know she won't make a big deal out of it either."

"Make a big deal out of what?" McGill demanded.

"Jake, it's okay," Vicki put a consoling hand on McGill's shoulder. "Your secret's safe with me, honestly."

McGill's eyes widened in horror.

"What'd you tell her?!"

McGill's reaction confirmed Larson's words in Vicki's own mind. The poor boy was gay and he just couldn't deal with it.

"Now, Jake," Larson began. "There's no need to be jumpy. We're all friends."

 _Which is why I'm sure you won't mind if_ I _jump on_ her _...in our dorm.  
_

"I don't believe this!" McGill exclaimed before turning to Vicki. "Did he make something up about me?"

"No, he told me the truth."

McGill turned back to Larson, struggling to keep his voice down. He wanted to scream, but he knew that would get him nowhere.

"Paul…what did you tell her?"

Larson flashed a grin that struck McGill as mocking.

"If you can admit it to yourself, you don't need me to explain it."

McGill scoffed as he stood up and grabbed his tray.

"I'm taking this outside," he announced. "I need to clear my head."

Larson nodded.

"You do that," he agreed.

Without another word, McGill made for the courtyard just outside of the dining hall. On a mild September day like this, it was a popular lunch spot, but McGill found room and got settled underneath an elm tree.

"Say Vicki," Larson began once they were alone. "You doin' anything later today?"

"I'm free," she grinned shyly.

"Good," Larson returned the grin.

Not only was he about to have some fun with a pretty brunette, but he was about to crush Jake McGill like a bug in the process. The cocky, trash-talking former Hawk occasionally got too big and too confident for his own good. So Larson took care to break him down from time to time. Of course, the former defenseman would always build him back up later. He knew from experience that this cycle fostered dependency in McGill that gave him full control.

And of course, Larson used that control for Jake's own good, he always reasoned.

 _After all_ , _it's a rough world. We all need a safe pair of hands for help._

Taking in the sight of his attractive companion, he flashed a reptilian smile.

 _And so what if I get a little extra on the side? Are you saying I don't deserve it?_

Before he could indulge in too many lecherous thoughts, Larson was snapped back to the present by the pandemonium that had swept through the dining hall. Although Vicki had been enjoying a very real double fudge brownie, Cole had ended up with a very real horse turd courtesy of Charlie, Fulton, and Russ. Varsity gave chase to the JV pranksters, causing everyone in the dining hall to leave their seats and follow in the hopes of watching a brawl.

* * *

Adam took his seat in the back row for Dr. Carson's earth science class after the school prefects had gotten between Varsity and JV to prevent a horse turd-related brawl. He didn't like sitting in the back, but Adam knew that his long frame was difficult for shorter kids to see around, so he joined the slackers and the troublemakers in the back row.

The Varsity center was already feeling squeezed by the roster situation. His Duck friends were beginning to eye him suspiciously, and Rick Riley's already-low opinion of the Banks Family was not improved by Adam's failure to warn him about Charlie's turd prank. Despite being innocent, Adam could not find himself above suspicion among his new teammates.

The only Varsity player who had shown Adam any kindness was Scooter – but Adam could tell that even _he_ had an agenda: namely, getting inside advice on how to pick up Julie. Adam had ruthlessly shot down the Varsity goalie's hopes at lunch by explaining to him that Julie had a "huge boyfriend" who lived off-campus and had "major jealousy issues."

Even as he felt a pang of guilt over this little act of romantic subterfuge, Adam could not help but smile just a little bit. He had no way of knowing if Portman really was Julie's jealous boyfriend who lived off campus… _but I don't know that he isn't either._

Adam hunched over in his desk chair to retrieve his notebook, and as he sat up straight again, he noticed a vaguely familiar boy walk in and make his way to the back. Upon closer inspection, Adam could tell that he was looking at Paul Larson. Those onyx orbs that never seemed to leave any room for white in the eyes were impossible to forget. The center felt his heart leap into his throat when he heard his old friend's voice for the first time in two years.

"Hey, Adam. Is this seat taken?"

Adam tried to say something, but choked on his own saliva. After a quick cough to clear his throat, he spoke up.

"Actually…"

"Great," Larson took his seat next to Adam before the latter could finish.

 _How did I not notice him yesterday?_ Adam wondered.

"I saw you sitting at the Varsity table at lunch," Larson announced. "Congratulations."

Adam looked over to see Larson's pointed white teeth twist into a sinister smile. The center never remembered his old friend looking so cruel when they were younger; but it was impossible to ignore the physical resemblance that Paul Larson had with his malevolent father, a man who had always scared Adam when he was a small boy.

Larson observed the fearful look in Adam's eyes and quickly wiped the smile off his face. There was a time and a place for scaring people half to death, but this was neither the time nor the place. The ex-defenseman put on his 'concerned' face.

"You doing alright, Adam? Your fellow Ducks still treating you with respect?"

Adam cleared his throat, resolving to give firm answers to Larson's questions. He hated himself for having been so obviously intimidated by his fellow Hawk, and he would not give Larson any further satisfaction by looking scared.

"They're fine, I guess. I think they have more issues with their new coach than they do with me."

 _Hmm…he seems confident about that. Let's try a different angle._

"And your Varsity teammates…they're cool?"

Adam's answer to Larson's Duck question was partly based in truth. He knew from his roommate Luis that the Ducks were struggling to adapt to Coach Orion, and it could well have been true that JV was more preoccupied with their coach than with Adam's Varsity status. But Adam would have to lie in order to describe his Varsity teammates as 'cool.'

And Larson picked up on this hesitation immediately.

"I guess not. People can be so misunderstanding, can't they?"

"Yes, they really can be."

Larson allowed Adam's response to hang in the air for several seconds while he scribbled down his email address and dorm room and phone numbers onto a sheet of notebook paper. Finished, the ex-defenseman ripped the scrap of paper out of his notebook and slid it onto Adam's desk.

"If you ever need to talk, this is how you can reach me."

Adam looked down at the neatly-torn square. Given his own messy penmanship, he was amazed that someone could write so legibly that quickly. But he knew that good, speedy penmanship was not the only thing that made Paul Larson unique. The center could never forget how Larson connived to get him to injure Jesse, or how Larson had arranged for Harry Sheridan to beat him to a pulp and frame the Ducks. Or the sick pleasure that Larson took in dominating people.

But as Adam stared down at the dark, unnaturally-neat script, he remembered how powerful, respected and feared he was as part of the Golden Trio. Deep in the dark recesses of his mind, the idea of dominating twerps was still highly intoxicating.

 _But you've changed...you don't still want that, do you?_

 _How do you know I don't want that?_

 _Because you're better than that._

 _If I'm better, then that means that I can have some fun! I mean, what else are twerps for?_

 _Are you forgetting about Jesse already? And what about Julie? You remember what she does to bullies? Sandersson and Stahl ring any bells, dummy?  
_

At that, Adam grabbed the scrap and ripped it to shreds without breathing another word to Larson.

 _Too soon, I guess,_ Larson figured. _No matter. A wounded deer always returns home…or dies trying._

* * *

As the JV team began skating laps in their new red-and-white practice uniforms, Julie felt sluggish from Goldberg's 'energy-packed' diet of donuts, éclairs, cookies, and cupcakes. Her stomach turned while her teammates raced by her.

" **Work those legs, Gaffney!"** Orion called out. **"Where's your energy?"**

Thankfully, she was close to the penalty box.

" **I think…I'm gonna be sick."**

And with that, she hunched over the gate and offered up her lunch to the hockey gods.

" **One cupcake over the line, Cat Lady!"** Goldberg taunted his rival goalie as he skated by with glee.

Further down the boards, Charlie continued to nurse a grudge against the hard-nosed coach who had the gall to tell him what to do.

" **This is total crap,"** he sulked. **"I can't play for this drill sergeant."**

" **Play for us, Charlie,"** Fulton implored. **"We're Ducks, man. Come on."**

" **Alright, Fulton,"** Charlie agreed. **"Get low, bend your knees."**

The pair of old Ducks began to practice their blocking while Orion observed Julie with concern.

" **Julie the Cat!"** He called out. **"What's the matter, you eat a furball?"**

Goldberg chuckled as he skated behind his new coach.

" **That's good, Coach. I like that.** ** _Furball_** **, it's very clever."**

But Orion was immune to suck-ups.

" **Just get in the net, Goldberg."**

Eventually, scrimmage got underway, but it did not take long for the tension between Orion and Charlie to re-emerge. Orion had made his career in the pro's as a defensive-minded forward. His approach to the game was a long way from pretty or flashy, but it got the job done. Charlie on the other hand, was a score-first forward who lacked the patience for defense. And with Adam on Varsity, Charlie felt that he was the main offensive option for his team, and he played like every possession had to end with him scoring.

" **Make him make the first move, Conway!"** Orion advised Charlie as the latter defended Averman.

But Averman blew past Charlie and got a shot off on Goldberg, which the veteran goalie easily blocked. But Orion was annoyed with Charlie's lackaidaisical approach to defense. And the brash forward's aggression in clearing the puck by his own net had not helped his case.

" **Freeze!"** Orion barked. **"Where's the one place, you never want to clear the puck?"**

" **It looked open,"** Charlie protested.

" **Just answer the question."**

" **Listen, I'm not a defenseman. I'm a scorer!"**

Charlie's feisty green eyes met with Orion's steely blues as star player and coach clashed.

" **Follow me,"** Orion calmly ordered Charlie.

The boy did as instructed and allowed his coach to usher him into the bench. In a way, the tough-love coach went easy on the mouthy player. After all, he could have sent Charlie to the vomit-soaked penalty box.

" **Anybody share his opinion?"** Orion called out to the team.

Orion was not exactly Mr. Popular with his players, but they all shared their coach's frustration with Charlie's selfish antics. None of them breathed a word of support for Captain Duck, causing Charlie to throw his gloves and stick down on the bench in another tantrum.

" **Alright, then take a knee,"** Orion instructed his remaining players.

The rest of the team obeyed as Orion made his way toward them.

" **What's the one thing all great teams have in common?"** He asked, picking up a puck.

" **Great coaching,"** Averman offered with a slight grin.

" **Don't try to suck up to me, Averman,"** Orion replied. **"Defense. See unlike scoring, defense never quits. But to play great defense you need one thing above all else."**

" **I bet it starts with a 'W,' "** Averman mused under his breath, alluding to the Coach's earlier speech extolling the virtues of 'work,' and 'will.'

" **Confidence,"** Orion insisted. **"Listen. If you learn nothing else here, you learn this…alright? This is not just about hockey. It's easy to be confident when you have control of the puck. It's very, very difficult when you gotta take whatever strange bounces life throws your way. Don't be careless, but don't be too careful either. You cannot be** ** _afraid to lose._** **That's how you gain the confidence to** ** _attack_** **the game when the puck isn't yours. That's how you attack life…even when you don't think you have any control. And that's how you play** ** _real defense."_**

* * *

Despite being benched for much of practice, Charlie still felt sore after he had changed back into his street clothes and made his way to the bus stop outside the campus gates. Not all of this soreness, however, could be attributed to Orion's demanding drills. A good bit of it was psychological. For years, Charlie had been Captain Duck: the team personified. Now, with Bombay off doing his own thing, Charlie was left with a strict new coach and a roster full of teammates who were unwilling to back him.

All of this weighed the 14-year old down. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and in so doing, allowed it go get trampled.

He had no need to buy anything at the mall, but he desperately wanted to get away from the stuffy old campus, so he pressed on to the bus stop for some much-needed time away from his teammates to clear his head.

But as he approached a bench by the stop, he noticed the one student who he was quite eager to spend some time with.

Linda Tompkins had been sitting alone on a bench with a lightweight brown jacket over her aqua-colored polo shirt to protect her from the September breeze. Charlie approached her in an oversized olive green sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans.

" **Is this seat taken?"** He asked.

Linda did not bother to respond, prompting Charlie to sulk as he took a seat next to her.

" **You know…you are** ** _just_** **like those snobs."**

" **I am not a snob."**

" **Oh really? Well, you don't like me because I'm an athlete. That's a snob. You don't even know me."**

" **If I knew you…I wouldn't like you,"** Linda assured him.

At this, Charlie could not help but laugh. The pretty brunette had some spunk, and he admired that.

" **Oh yeah? Well try me,"** he replied, extending a hand which Linda shook. **"I'm Charlie Conway. I'm a 14-year old, almost six foot, non-smoking Leo. I like hockey, pizza, and music…and I** ** _dislike_** **everything about that school. Except for maybe you,"** he added with a flirty grin. **"Now you try."**

" **I'm Linda,"** she began. **"I don't like it here either."**

 _Huzzah! Something in common!"_

" **And…pizza?"** He asked.

" **I like pizza,"** she confirmed in an amused tone.

" **And music?"**

" **Of course I like music! I like Pantera."**

" **No way! I** ** _love_** **Pantera!"** Charlie exclaimed, prompting Linda to chuckle. **"So the only thing we don't agree on is hockey…too violent? Don't understand the rules?"**

" **I have to admit, I've never been to a game."**

Charlie could not believe this. How could anyone _not_ be into hockey?

" **You've never heard of the Anaheim Mighty Ducks?** **They named a pro team after us!"**

Linda giggled slightly as she offered an apologetic shrug.

" **Sorry."**

" **Well, we have a game on Friday. And…I was just thinking that, you could come down and snag a Coke or something afterwards?"**

" **I still don't know you that well."**

" **Did I tell you I'm allergic to nuts?"**

Linda chortled, amused at the boy's persistence. He definitely did not seem like the other Jocks – who at this point in the conversation would tell her that she was a loser and stomp off – as he continued to flirt lightly while poking fun at himself. And of course, their shared passion for REM and Pantera was a plus. Despite finding him offputting at their first meeting, Linda was intrigued by this strange, but charming boy, and invited him to continue talking as their bus approached.

At this, Charlie triumphantly pumped his fist after Linda boarded, excited by the fact that someone at the stuffy old boarding school seemed to find him worth the time.


	23. To be a Warrior

**Chapter Twenty-Three: To be a Warrior**

Vicki Worthington stared dreamily at Paul Larson as she laid on his bed, resting on her elbows. The former Hawk defenseman had taken a seat at his desk and was waiting for a Golden Gophers game to start up on the TV. Vicki, the comely Prep who Jake McGill had been crushing on, had invited Larson back onto the bed for some cuddling, but he declined, explaining to her that the television screen was too small to be seen from the bed – all the while omitting the fact that he had better eyesight than most.

Like most guys after the event, all Paul Larson wanted to do was watch sports and have a ham sandwich.

Unfortunately, Vicki believed that Larson was only kidding when he had instructed her to go and grab him something to eat, and his stomach was beginning to growl as the love-struck brunette remained firmly in place on his bed – her blouse just long enough to cover the thighs left bare by her discarded skirt. Larson meanwhile sat fully dressed in an ill-fitting pair of pale blue jeans that left his ankles exposed and a black Pearl Jam T-shirt.

The former defenseman wanted to be rid of the girl, but he knew that he needed her when his roommate returned.

 _Shit.  
_

It dawned on Larson that if he was fully-clothed when McGill walked in on him and Vicki, it would not have had the full, crushing effect that he had been hoping for; so he slid out of his T-shirt and tossed it onto the floor – exposing his pale, but taut torso.

Vicki gasped at the sight.

"Again, already?" She asked with a flirty bat of her eyelashes.

Having already performed the necessary act, Larson was in no mood for a repeat performance.

"I'm still waiting for that sandwich," he deadpanned.

Vicki scoffed as she rose from the bed before sliding her skirt back on.

"Pig."

As she made her way to the door, Larson sprang forward and overtook her. He got her to stop by resting his hands on her shoulders and meeting her annoyed frown with an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry, Vicki," he offered. "I know. I'm rough around the edges, I admit that. But…but…" _God I really didn't wanna say this_ "But I can tell that you're really special. Tell ya what? I'll turn the hockey game off, and we can just cuddle…and talk..."

She looked up with an eagerness that disgusted him.

 _No self-respect, this one._

"…talk...about our…. _feelings,"_ he finished at last.

"Something wrong, Paul?"

"Oh, no. Just a little cold, that's all. I probably should put my shirt back on."

He felt a cold shiver run up his long, bare arms as Vicki gripped them before he could turn and grab his shirt.

"Or we could keep _each other_ warm," she suggested with a nauseatingly playful grin.

"Good idea!" Larson fake-enthused while wondering how he got himself into this mess.

He turned back and switched off the TV before joining Vicki, who had resumed her seat back on his bed. Despite sitting next to her, Larson took care to leave some space between the two of them, which prompted Vicki to frown again.

"I thought you said you were cold."

"Oh, right," he agreed, discarding his shirt and wrapping a long arm around her waist, pulling her close.

Despite the awkwardness of the situation, he had to admit to himself that the silky, raven-colored hair felt good on his chest. Physical contact with a female in general had felt good, having lost his mother's hugs three years earlier. Larson tightened his grip around Vicki as he brooded on the loss that he had suffered on his 11th birthday.

He re-lived this loss every day, as the comely young brunette with honey brown eyes who had eventually become his mother smiled at him in her 17-year old form. That little yearbook photo that Larson loved and simultaneously loathed served as a permanent reminder of a life with his gentle, loving mother that he would never be able to live again.

His grip around the brunette sitting on his bed tightened further as his thigh burned beneath the photo in the front pocket of his jeans.

"Ok, ok – a little too tight," Vicki protested as she squirmed out of Larson's intensely possessive grip.

Larson snapped out of his brooding and looked down into the girl's jade green eyes.

 _Wrong color,_ he thought unhappily.

"Sorry," he offered.

"It's ok," Vicki replied. "You said you wanted to talk, didn't you? So let's talk."

"About what?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "How are you feeling?"

Larson recoiled at the question, drawing a worried look from Vicki. The quiet, intense boy had seemed so desperate for intimacy earlier – his hungry hands having greedily devoured her soft skin. Then came that fierce grip around the waist just now. But Vicki could sense that her male companion was shuttering his windows and locking his doors. She could tell that something was bothering him, but he was determined to keep it locked inside.

After a few tense seconds, Larson's coarse features cracked into a smile.

"How am I feeling?" He asked. "Like I want a ham-and-cheese sandwich."

"Heh, I guess you should get to it then."

Again, she rose from the bed and moved to exit.

Larson cursed himself for pushing her away before McGill could discover them together; but then, as if answering his silent prayers, the door opened and Jake McGill walked in.

The ex-forward took in the sight of his crush walking away from a bed where a topless Paul Larson was sitting. Having noticed McGill's return, Larson stood up and closed the gap between Vicki and himself.

"Oh, hey Jake," Vicki greeted him with a hint of self-consciousness. "What's up?"

McGill bit on a clenched fist as his eyes darted between an innocent-looking Vicki and a grinning Larson.

"I don't think Jake's really in the mood to talk right now," said Larson. "See you at the game?"

Vicki nodded.

"Sure thing."

"Good."

Larson gave Vicki a parting slap on the butt as she walked past McGill and out into the hallway, giggling in spite of herself. She might not have appreciated Larson's emotional distance, but she enjoyed his strong hands.

The former defenseman snapped back to the present as he felt McGill's loaded backpack hit him directly in the gut.

 _Ooof!_

"What was that for?!" Larson demanded.

"You know what."

"No, I really don't."

"Don't bullshit me, Larson. First, you said something at lunch the other day that made Vicki act all weird around me, and then you decided that our room is the best place to makeout with her. She was _mine,_ you dick!"

"Should we have gone at it on Buckley's desk instead of our room, then?" Larson teased.

But McGill was not amused.

"You're such an asshole," he declared, reaching for his backpack.

"Am I?" Larson asked rhetorically. "Well guess what, I'm all that you have. Go ahead, push me away. See how many other friends you have. Remember when none of the other Hawks wanted to give you a ride home?"

McGill's pale eyes betrayed a look of considerable hurt. But Larson persisted.

"And let's not forget that genius move you made with Adam, oh I'm sure he just _loves_ you now. Go ahead, try reaching out to him – assuming you can even get past those big Varsity goons he's surrounded by first. At least there's plenty of room at the Nerd table, the only place in the dining hall where you can realistically sit now."

McGill slung his backpack over his shoulder before turning back to the door.

"I'm going to the library," he announced. "I need to get away from you."

Larson shrugged.

"Suit yourself. Just think real long and hard about your situation," he advised. "This place has no shortage of bad dudes, and I bet it'll get real scary real fast without any friends."

McGill did not bother to reply before leaving and slamming the door behind him.

 _It's all for his own good,_ Larson assured himself. _He has to know his place. Besides…a wounded deer always returns home._

* * *

Larson and Vicki got into school spirit and donned red Warrior sweatshirts before taking their seats at Eden Hall Arena in anticipation of the pre-season game between JV and the Blake Bears. The former Hawk had been wearing pre-growth spurt blue jeans that had left his white crew socks exposed, while his preppy companion wore a flattering pair of dark blue jeans that had directed a multitude of male eyes southward.

Larson observed Varsity take their seats in the back rows opposite his own seat on the other side of the ice. He could not make out the facial features of his friend-turned-prey, but he imagined that Adam was uncomfortable and unhappy. The ex-defenseman vividly remembered Adam's earlier experience of forced departure from a team, and he felt that the quiet center was up for the taking.

All Larson needed was for the timing to be right, but patience was a gift that the young hunter possessed in abundance, so he didn't fret.

 _Besides,_ _a wounded deer always returns home. Or dies trying._

He was nudged out of his Adam-centered brooding when he felt a smooth, warm hand grip his chapped, cold one. He returned Vicki's grasp, but was beginning to worry about clinginess. The girl had already served her purpose, after all.

 _Unless I can find something else for her...yes, that's a possibility._

Their grip broke as they stood up to cheer for the JV team as it made its way out of the tunnel and onto the ice in their red-and-white home uniforms.

The pair remained standing for the National Anthem, then resumed their seats as Blake and JV returned to their benches for their coaches to provide a last-minute pep talk. Vicki grabbed Larson's hand again, and again, he returned the grasp – but less intensely. Hockey was about to be played, and that pushed all other considerations to the back of his mind.

Over at the JV bench, the former Ducks had begun their pre-game quacking routine, only to be interrupted by Coach Orion.

" **Hey, hey, hey, what the hell's that?! Knock that off!"** He snapped. **"Alright, 'go team,' on two. One, two…"**

 ** _"Go team,"_** JV replied with zero enthusiasm.

But Charlie was plenty excited even without the ritual quacking. It was only an exhibition game, but Charlie loved the game and was desperate to put all the Orion drama to the side and play. His spirits were boosted further as he observed Linda taking a seat in the stands. As their eyes met, she gave him a little wave that prompted Charlie to smile broadly before lining up for the opening faceoff.

Charlie won possession and danced around the all-blue Blake defenders, not bothering to pass to any of his open teammates. But Charlie's shiftiness got him into a nice position in front of the net, and the former Duck captain slapped in an easy goal giving JV the early lead.

Adam stood and applauded his old team, but was quickly shoved back into his seat by his new Varsity teammates.

The first line cheered as Charlie skated down the boards, pumping his fist and bending his knees in triumph.

" **Knock off the celebration!"** Orion chided from the bench. **"Act like you've scored before!"**

Charlie eventually earned himself a hat trick while JV continued to dominate the Bears.

" **Hey, Ref,"** Goldberg began from the bench. **"You know, you can call this game now and we can all get home in time to see** ** _Melrose._** **"**

JV had run the score up through the 2nd period.

So one-sided had the game been that a bored Julie began to lazily skate around her net while the JV skaters continued to hammer away at the Bears in the Blake zone. JV enjoyed a commanding 9-goal lead and seemed to have everything in hand as they lined up against the Bears for the faceoff at the beginning of the 3rd period.

Averman noticed that his Blake opposite looked a bit tense.

" **Relax, it's** ** _over_** **baby,"** the old D5er declared.

But the Blake forward was unamused.

He won possession and lit a spark under his team by putting them on the board for the first time. Julie, who had not been shot at the entire game, was caught off-guard by the sudden attack, and her defenders were slow to get back to the JV zone, resulting in the loss of the potential shutout.

9-1, JV.

The Blake onslaught continued. Two, three, four, five…the Bears were fast closing the gap, and had piled up an astonishing six goals. A Blake forward got the better of Charlie and blew past him unopposed to the net, reducing JV's lead to just 2. Frustrated, Charlie slammed his stick against the JV goalpost, breaking the stick in half and earning 2 minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct.

With JV clinging to a 2-goal lead, Orion ordered Goldberg into the net. Having witnessed the collapse of the JV defense from the bench, the veteran Duck was in no mood to regain his starting spot, but made his way to the net to relieve Julie.

But the change failed to stem the bleeding. Goldberg gave up a quick goal, allowing Charlie to leave the penalty box early, but narrowing JV's lead to just a single goal with 30 seconds remaining in regulation. Blake pulled their goalie and added a sixth skater in the hopes of securing a tie.

But Charlie had other ideas.

The former captain took possession of the puck and charged into the Blake zone, again ignoring open teammates. He could have milked the clock and won the game by passing, but playing safe just wasn't Charlie's style – and the empty Blake net looked awfully tempting to the goal-hungry forward.

As a pair of Bears closed in on him, Charlie fired a slap-shot from just inside the Blake blue line. There was no one to defend the incoming puck, and Charlie liked his chances. But the puck lost its speed on the rough ice, and stopped just short of the goal line. Charlie cursed his luck as a Bear recovered the puck and led the Blake charge into the JV zone. After getting Goldberg to bite on a fake, the Blake forward made a lateral pass to a teammate who tapped in an easy goal as the final horn sounded.

Given that it was only pre-season, there would not be any overtime period or shootouts; but blowing a 9-goal lead could only be a profound disappointment, no matter what the silver lining. A furious Coach Orion demanded that his players shore up their defense going forward. He was unimpressed by the nine goals that his team had scored, and demanded that they focus on the 'number' zero going forward. He closed by informing his players that they were to practice at 5 o'clock the next morning.

As the gritty coach pointed out, one had to get up very early in order to **"** **hunt goose eggs."**

The JV locker room fell dead silent after Orion left, and the players had only just noticed the sound of running water. After discovering their street clothes soaking in the moldy communal showers with the words **"** **Freshmen stink"** written in shaving cream on the wall, JV knew the culprits, and resolved to hit them back.

* * *

The next day, while Varsity played their pre-season opener, Julie, Russ, and Ken wheeled a large tank of liquid nitrogen – which the school science department generously loaned without consent – into the upperclassmen's locker room. Other Ducks had suggested retaliating in kind by soaking Varsity's clothes, but quiet Ken Wu had decided that it would be better to one-up the snobs with an original prank instead. As Russ gleefully sprayed the contents of the tank all around the locker room, frosting everything in his path, he paused as he came upon the locker that he knew belonged to Adam.

" **Hey, what about Banksie?"** He asked his fellow out-of-staters.

" **He's one of** ** _them_** **now, isn't he?"** Julie replied.

" **Sad, but true,"** Russ agreed.

The quiet forward that Julie had found intriguing during the Junior Goodwill Games had not aroused the same intensity of feeling in her that she did in him. Julie barely knew him and felt no special loyalty toward him, given how little they had interacted. To her, Adam Banks was just another snob in a black jersey...who just happened to be really cute.

" **How 'bout** ** _full pressure?"_** She grinned malevolently.

" **Sorry, Cake Eater!"** Russ shrugged before opening fire on Adam's locker.

* * *

The triumphant Varsity squad returned to their locker room after pounding Ridgewood Academy into a fine pulp, only to discover a frozen wasteland. Hard frost clung to the walls, lockers, clothing and backpacks. The scene almost looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.

Adam frowned as he noticed that his stuff appeared to have received the worst treatment. He had been left in the dark about Varsity's shower prank, and was baffled by what he saw. All the Varsity eyes wandered up to the wall that Cole had indicated with his mitt.

 ** _"Varsity Sucks Ice!"_**

" **Ducks,"** Riley snarled before shattering his frozen letterman jacket with a punch, sending the pieces tumbling to the ground.

But the Varsity Captain soon regained his composure, his wolfish face aglitter with a cruel smile.

He met Adam's worried gaze from across the locker room. Riley knew that the freshman could not be relied on to keep his plans for retaliation a secret, so he put on an act.

"Don't worry, guys," Riley assured his teammates. "We'll sort out this little problem over a bit of surf-and-turf."

The Varsity Captain's older teammates knew him well enough to know that he was scheming some sort of revenge, so they murmured their agreement.

Adam was just relieved that his new team was going to try and smooth things over with his old team.

* * *

After receiving Adam's assurance that Varsity's invitation to the swanky Minnesota Club was **"** **cool,"** JV donned their formal attire and joined their older classmates for a night of fine dining off campus. The two teams occupied an elegant candlelit room in the back – adorned with oil paintings and bouquets, and complete with solicitous servers who refilled their water glasses after no more than three sips.

Adam was feeling a profound sense of relief, confident that everything was going to be alright. His old teammates really seemed to be enjoying themselves, and his new teammates had been surprisingly convivial, with all of their past haughtiness nowhere to be seen. All of the earlier tensions appeared to have dissolved in laughter, easy conversation, and rich dishes.

 _This is totally_ not _going to be like it was with the Hawks,_ he thought happily.

Adam suppressed a curious laugh as he observed Julie throw a hard elbow into Goldberg's gut after the old D5er had offered his rival goalie an extra piece of prime rib. The former Hawk had no idea why Julie was so annoyed with Goldberg, as the gesture seemed rather benign to him.

 _Maybe that's something I can ask her about._

Once school had started and he was consigned to Varsity, Adam had precious few opportunities to talk to the girl who made his heart skip a beat. And he had chickened out during the few chances that he had. Part of the problem was that he simply did not know what to talk to her about. But maybe that curious exchange that he had observed between Julie and Goldberg could provide an opening. As he cleared his throat to speak, he heard the sound of a spoon tapping a glass, and observed Riley standing up from his seat at the center of the table.

 _I guess it'll have to wait a little bit._

After giving a generous toast to the JV team, Riley ordered his teammates to follow him outside, ostensibly to retrieve the 'special surprise' he had for the Ducks. Having hardly seen them, Adam was reluctant to leave Julie and the rest of his former teammates, and he hesitated.

For some reason, he felt a sinking premonition as he followed his teammates outside.

Once they were all gathered on the sidewalk, Varsity broke into anticipatory laughter.

"What's so funny?" Adam asked Riley.

"Only those peasants trying to pay that massive dinner bill," Riley snickered.

Adam's eyes widened in horror. Riley's peace overture had been a cruel ruse.

"Heh, if you're thinking about warning them, don't bother," Riley advised. "They're about to find out for themselves in just a minute. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Adam wanted to wipe the smug grin off his smarmy captain's face and mail it to Nepal. But as indignant as he felt, Adam took comfort in the fact that at least Scooter would be implicated in Julie's mind as well.

At that, Adam managed a slight smile in spite of himself.

"Good boy," Riley gave Adam an affable clap on the back, ignorant of the source of Adam's cheer.

* * *

Adam looked on with curiosity as he watched his roommate, Luis, put on the last of his black ninja gear. Despite his Varsity status, housing arrangements had been made before the start of school, and Adam ended up rooming with a former teammate on JV rather than a current one on Varsity. Despite being polar opposites in most ways, Adam and Luis enjoyed a relatively smooth roommate relationship.

Luis liked to go out, leaving Adam with the room to himself most nights. And when Luis finally "bagged" the gorgeous senior cheerleader named Mindy – as he repeatedly declared that he would – Adam supposed he could just chill at the library and let Luis do his thang.

And being a relative newcomer to the Ducks like Adam, Luis was more reluctant than the old D5ers to believe that Adam had gone native on Varsity. But after that dinner stunt, this was beginning to change, and Adam was beginning to find Luis considerably less open and amiable than he had previously been.

"What's with the getup?" Adam asked, indicating Luis' all-black attire.

"That's classified," the Miami speedster replied, grabbing his black beret and sunglasses.

"Why do I get the feeling that this has something to do with Varsity?" Adam asked rhetorically. "Or have you become a peeping tom?"

Luis could not help but chuckle at that little dig. His roommate was funnier than most people realized – if only he just spoke up a bit more.

"Yep, you got me," Luis grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Could you do me a favor and toss me my chloroform and rope?"

Adam chuckled, relieved that he had remained on friendly terms with at least one old teammate.

"Sure thing," he replied, tossing the invisible creeper goodies, which Luis pretended to catch.

"Thanks, Slick," Luis offered before turning to leave.

"Luis?"

"Yeah, man?"

"Be careful," the former Hawk advised. "Riley and Cole really are nasty guys. If you screw up doing…whatever it is that you're doing…they'll hurt you. Bad."

He was about to add "and watch out for Julie," but decided against being blatantly obvious, opting instead to speak in broader terms.

"And watch out for the other Ducks."

Luis nodded.

"Got it, Banksie."

Adam winced at the sound of his hated nickname, but decided that now was not the best time to lecture Luis on the matter. The former Hawk simply nodded in reply before his roommate disappeared out the door.

* * *

JV, dressed entirely in black, broke into fits of laughter as they watched the hapless Varsity squad tumble out of their dorms, scratching and hopping as if they had fleas. Once again, JV had taken advantage of special campus provisions to hit their Varsity tormentors. Only this time they decided to use some of Dean Buckley's Brazilian fire ants, piping them in through a series of clear connected tubes that they had picked up at a local hardware store.

" **You think you're funny, huh?"** Reilly demanded, continuing to scratch. **"You think you're worth a damn? You're just white trash!"**

" **Uh…who are you callin' white trash?"** Russ asked.

" **That's right…we'll take you** ** _any time, anywhere,"_** Charlie chimed in.

" **Tomorrow. Dawn,"** Riley declared before leading his teammates to the showers.


	24. The Ducks are Dead

**Chapter Twenty-Four: The Ducks are Dead**

JV and Varsity met at dawn the morning after the fire ant prank. The rival teams had arrived when the furnace automatically switched on after being left off for the night, leaving an ominous fog over the ice and frozen breath all around. JV had donned their white, purple, and teal Duck uniforms while Varsity wore Warrior red and black –complete with their most recent State Championship badge sewn to the sleeves above the elbow.

Scooter had worked up the nerve to talk to Julie, offering to **"** **call it even"** viz-a-viz the prank war, only for Julie to scrunch her face in disgust and liken ties to **"kissing your brother."**

The Varsity goalie watched his JV opposite skate ahead of him, and shook his head. Attached or single, whatever Julie's relationship status was, she was all-business this morning, and quite immune to the old Vanderbilt charm.

As the two teams began breaking away from their separate warm-up laps, Adam approached Charlie.

The Varsity forward knew that he was still on friendly terms with Luis, but the Miami speedster was somewhat of an outlier on the JV squad. Charlie may have been missing his 'C,' but Adam knew that the mercurial forward was still the heart of the team, and he reasoned that his chances of reaching an understanding with JV hinged on earning Charlie's trust.

" **They didn't tell me until it was too late,"** Adam pleaded. **"Charlie, believe me!"**

" **Yeah right,** ** _Preppy."_**

Adam frowned before taking his position on the wings while Charlie and Riley lined up against each other.

" **First to ten,"** the senior declared. **"Full check."**

" **Bring it on."**

After tapping their sticks on the ice with a brief count to five, Riley won possession and knocked Charlie on his butt. Connie and Guy tried to double-team the strongly-built 17-year old, but went down like bowling pins as Riley powered his way into the JV zone, one-on-one with Goldberg.

" **Come on, buddy,"** said Goldberg. **"Make your move!"**

Riley got one through the 5-hole and gave Varsity the early lead, prompting his Warrior teammates to holler like banshees from the bench.

The flying V led by Charlie proved ineffective, and the Varsity first line skated into the JV zone unopposed, leading to another easy goal for Riley.

JV could not match Varsity's physicality, but Charlie managed to elude his pursuers with some shifty footwork. He bore down on Scooter with his triple deke and took JV's first shot of the game – which the Varsity goalie easily caught.

Riley took possession and scored once again – with a bit of goalie interference – and taunted Goldberg with a **"** **quack, quack"** for good measure; at which point, a fiery Connie had had just about all that she could take, and moved to confront the Varsity Captain. She struggled against her teammates, urging them to let her at him, but Charlie took care to get between her and Riley and prevent the petite forward from getting clobbered.

" **Want some…maybe later, huh?"** Riley called out as Charlie led Connie away.

" **We can't win if they're gonna cheat!"** She protested to her fellow D5er.

" **Don't show 'em we're hurt,"** Charlie admonished her. **"Keep skating."**

But Charlie lost his cool when play resumed and Adam stuck to him like white on rice. Adam leaned into Charlie as the latter took a shot on Scooter, forcing the puck wide of the net. Adam's defense was unique among Varsity for actually being clean and legal, but an increasingly frustrated Charlie snapped.

" **Damn it, Banks!"**

He wrapped an arm around his former teammate and pulled him down to the ice, prompting both benches to clear in anticipation of a brawl.

" **How do you like it, Banks?!"** Charlie demanded with a shove as the pair returned to their feet.

" **Yeah, nice take-down. You'd be in the box!"**

" **Go cry to your rich parents!"**

" **Alright, fine. Let's go!"**

Adam threw his gloves down and began to whale away on Charlie as their teammates surrounded them. Unable to separate the pair of brawlers, the rest of Varsity and JV simply went at each other. Sticks, gloves and helmets slammed against the ice while fists flew and tempers raged. Varsity utterly despised the JV interlopers who had invaded their school and shoved the original roster aside. JV resented Varsity's snobbishness and aggression. The little pranks that they had inflicted on each other gave way to pure, unadulterated fury.

There was a real risk for some serious injuries until about a minute or two into the brawl, when the arena's lights flickered on and Orion's angry voice pierced the air.

" **FREEZE!"**

The JV coach swooped in and ordered Varsity off the ice.

Most of Varsity complied readily enough, but Riley could not resist a parting taunt, threatening to **"** **destroy"** JV as he smirked. Scooter put a calming hand on his captain's shoulder and urged him to **"let it go."**

Adam, the last of Varsity to line up and leave, looked back at his old teammates. The sadness in his eyes far outweighed any anger that he felt. Varsity had never fully embraced or trusted him, and now JV was openly hostile. The soft-spoken forward had found himself alone on an island. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he remembered the shredded piece of contact information from Larson.

Orion skated up to his players, ready to lay down the law.

" **Well, congratulations,"** he began sarcastically. **"You just forfeited whatever mental edge you might have had over Varsity. Now they** ** _know_** **that they own you."**

JV's eyes fell to the ice as their coach upbraided them.

" **This isn't the Pee Wee's. Your little Duck tricks are not gonna work at this level. For the last time** ** _stay away from Varsity!"_**

After a brief pause, he continued.

" **And get those Duck jerseys off, now. Now, come on, let's go! Take 'em off!"**

Most of JV complied, but Charlie defiantly crossed his arms and glared at his coach.

" **The Ducks are dead,"** Orion declared, returning Charlie's folded-arm gesture. **"You got two choices, Conway. Take off the jersey right now, or you don't play."**

The boy looked like he was about to cry, but he found his voice.

" **You're breaking up the best thing any of us have ever had."**

" **Well, it's time to grow up."**

" **Grow up?"** Charlie asked as he closed in on Orion. **"Like you, huh? A washed-up pro who has to show off to a bunch of kids? Geez, that's** ** _real_** **grown-up."**

" **Ok, goodbye Conway."** Orion turned towards the other players. **"Anybody else?"**

Fulton, the last to join D5 and the first to accept Bombay's green Duck jersey joined Charlie on the way out.

" **Alright, goodbye Fulton,"** Orion added before turning back to his remaining players. **"No one's forcing you to be here. It's your lives. You decide what to make of it."**

A forlorn JV squad watched as the two original Ducks walked out of their lives.

" **Alright, 20 laps, then hit the showers,"** Orion ordered his remaining players.

* * *

Connie stuck close to her friend, Lisa Morgan, as she made her way to algebra. With Charlie and Fulton gone, JV had been left rudderless that morning; and once Orion had returned to his office, there had been some debate among the remaining players about whether or not they should carry on. Original D5ers like Connie felt that there was no team without Charlie and Fulton, and they wanted to sit-out their game scheduled for later that day. Out-of-staters, on the other hand, did not feel the same attachment to the pair of original Ducks, and were inclined to play.

The team was divided and unhappy, but it was expected that the remaining Ducks would still show up to play.

Nevertheless, Connie was desperate for some non-hockey company. With all the Varsity and intra-JV drama, she was beginning to hate the game that she had been playing since the age of six.

She happily chatted to Lisa as they walked into Dr. Stein's classroom, and the brunette forward was so engrossed in conversation that she was beginning to lose a sense of her surroundings. The pair of girls made their way toward the third row – far back enough where they wouldn't be a nerd or an overachiever, but not far enough to be a slacker or a bully.

Connie lost her bearings and brushed a stack of books on the edge of a fourth-row desk with her hip, causing them to crash to the floor. She snapped out of her semi-stupor when she heard the books land, and she quickly bent down to pick them up.

"I'm so sorry," she offered, turning to place the books back on the desk before looking up.

Connie gave the tall, brown-haired boy with ebony eyes a probing look. She did not know how, but he looked familiar for some reason.

Larson masked his shock with characteristic stoicism. The dainty, beautiful brunette with the honey brown eyes and smooth, porcelain skin that resembled the girl he kept in his pocket every day was there – just inches away and looking directly at him.

 _Porcelain Goddess._

He fought back the urge to reach out and cup that lovely, apologetic face and willed himself to act cool.

"Don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry…do I know you?" Connie asked. "You look familiar."

"Maybe I am. Does the name 'Paul Larson' ring any bells?"

Her eyes widened in shock.

"You're a Hawk, aren't you?!"

"Heh, back in the day," Larson acknowledged. "I'm actually taking a break from hockey this year. But I hope to be playing next year."

Connie stared back at the tall, square-faced boy with the broad shoulders and impenetrably dark eyes. She vaguely remembered Larson as 'the quiet Hawk' who came to Adam's assistance during their first Pee Wee Championship. She didn't know what to make of this older, stronger, and darker version of the Quiet Hawk, and the Duck-related turmoil from earlier in the day helped to cloud her head even further.

As she stood frozen with a vacant expression, he gave her a slight, teasing smile.

"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable sitting down?"

Connie nodded and took her usual seat in the third row without breathing another word to Paul Larson.

Her quick, graceful movements drew the appreciation of his dark, hungry eyes.

 _Porcelain Goddess._

* * *

Hans made his way into the living room in the little apartment behind his skate shop, a mug of tea in hand. He had been feeling like death for the past several days, but did his best not to let it show around his brother or any of their customers. The old skate merchant never liked being a burden, so he wore a mask of Scandinavian stoicism as he faced down death. He had not been to a doctor's, but he knew that visiting one wouldn't do any good at this point. He could feel the end coming, and he was determined to go out with quiet dignity.

He set the mug on the end table by his favorite chair, and fell into his comfy old recliner, relieved to be off his feet at last. After switching on the radio, he leaned back and listened to the JV hockey game, but the old man found the game difficult to follow, as he frequently interrupted Josh's commentary with coughing fits.

Despite being unable to hear most of the details, Hans could tell that the game was not going well for his beloved Ducks. Charlie had left, taking almost half of JV's scoring power with him, and Fulton's departure left a big hole on defense that Goldberg did his best to fill – despite his weak skating.

The old man heard the bell over his apartment door ring as Charlie walked in.

" **Your mother's been calling,"** Hans announced. **"She's been looking for you."**

" **I'm right here,"** Charlie responded as he plopped down onto the sofa.

 ** _"There's the buzzer – at the end of two, it's Cardinals 4, Warriors 1,"_** Josh announced.

Hans leaned in and switched off the radio.

" **Sounds like the team needs you."**

" **They don't need me. What they need is a new coach,"** Charlie sulked.

" **You're not a little boy anymore, Charlie. Please stop acting this way."**

" **I just don't know what this guy wants from me."**

" **He won't let you just skate by,"** Hans croaked. **"He demands more. He wants it because he knows that it's there inside of you. Like Gordon did! He needs you to lead."**

The old man's hoarse voice continued to lose its strength as he talked, but Charlie figured it was just fatigue.

" **How can he expect me to lead when he takes away my 'C'?"** The boy demanded. **"I was the Captain, Hans!"**

" **It's only a letter, Charlie."**

Hans turned and fished out a pile of fabric C's and A's from a drawer.

" **Here, I have hundreds!"** He announced, flinging the letters at Charlie with a chuckle.

" ** _These_** **are not the same,"** Charlie snapped. **"Don't make fun of me, Hans!"**

" **He took away the 'C,' Charlie. Not what was under it.** **Go, be with your friends, Charlie. You have the heart of the team. Don't let it slip** ** _away,"_** the old man choked out.

Charlie shot up from the sofa, annoyed that even Hans didn't seem to get it, and moved to the door.

" ** _They're_** **the ones that are slipping away from** ** _me,"_** the boy insisted while Hans stifled a gasp and recoiled.

Charlie had caught the disturbing gesture out of the corner of his eye and turned back with a worried look on his face.

" **Are you ok, Hans?"**

The old man simply flashed a teasing grin and wagged his index finger.

The boy let out an irritated sigh.

" **I gotta walk,"** he announced before storming off and slamming the door behind him.

" **Goodbye, Charlie."**

* * *

After the Cardinals trounced JV, Adam quietly left the stands and made his way to the computer lab in the school library. He hoped against hope that an email would be waiting for him when he arrived. Given his pariah status in the world of Eden Hall hockey, Adam was desperate to hear from the only person he could still count as a friend. Unfortunately, this friend lived over a thousand miles away and could not offer more direct support; but emotional support from afar was better than nothing.

The Varsity forward arrived at the computer lab and was greeted by the sound of keyboard clicks as students plugged away on term papers and fired off emails. Not all of the computers had an internet connection. Naturally, _those_ machines were in the most demand, and Adam's eyes surveyed the row of internet-connected computers and found an apparently-open station.

But as he approached, he could see a girl's purse occupying the station's chair, and a pretty blonde upperclassman occupying the station next to it.

 _Great._

Under such formidable conditions, Adam's inclination was to turn and leave. But he was desperate to read an email that may or may not be there for him, and that was enough to motivate him to do the unthinkable: talk to a pretty girl.

"Um…excuse me," he called out softly.

The brown-eyed girl with flaxen-colored locks ceased typing and turned to meet the quiet forward's gaze. She was no one that Adam knew, but that hardly made his task any easier.

"What's up?" She asked.

"Is this seat taken?" He indicated the seat containing the purse.

"Oh no, it's not," the girl replied, grabbing the purse and setting it on the floor in front of her chair. "I only had it there to keep the creeps away," she added with a smile.

Adam replied with a laugh that he hoped didn't sound too forced.

"Great, thanks," he offered, setting his backpack down and taking a seat at the now-open station.

Without another word, he entered his username and password, then anxiously tapped on the desk with his index finger as he waited for the computer to sign him in.

The girl had welcomed the handsome hockey player to the neighboring station readily enough, but it soon became obvious that he had no interest in talking. So she returned to her computer screen with a shrug and resumed her work.

 _Yep. I've got this talking to girls thing down,_ Adam thought half-seriously. At least he hadn't stammered, and he didn't feel that he had blushed either.

Everyone has to start somewhere.

" _You've got mail!"_

Adam grasped the mouse and clicked on the email icon. A broad smile lit his face as he saw Jesse's reply in bold, unread text. The Varsity forward wasted no time in opening the document.

 _Hey Cake Eater :p_

 _If those Ducks don't start treating you better, I'm gonna come back up to Minnesota and give them a piece of my mind!_

 _Heh, I wish._

 _But seriously, I'm sure it'll all blow over. No one saw that you were a Duck slower than I did, and if I can come around, anyone can. It must be all this pre-season junk. I bet Varsity and JV will focus on their own business when the regular season starts up next month. You just gotta hang in there and keep working hard._

 _But those are the two things you do best, so I'm sure that won't be a problem._

 _So…_

 _Any progress on the Julie front?_

 _You can tell me! I'm your best friend, and none of the other Ducks can be bothered to write to me, so it's not like I'll tell them anything._

 _Speaking of friends, I'm making a few here in Florida. Still, they're no Ducks. There's no replacing that. You know that, and sooner or later the others will realize that. Then, everything will be back to normal._

 _Later, dude!  
_

 _-Jesse_

Normally when Adam got to the end of a Jesse email, he'd feel a sense of disappointment that it was over. But this time, he felt horror in the knowledge that his former rival knew about his feelings for Julie.

 _How the heck did he know that?!_

He could not remember mentioning his crush in any one email, apart from mentioning the team or group as a whole. In fact, Adam had always taken care to never single out Julie. But if Jesse's clues were not anything recent, then they could only have come from their shared experience at the Junior Goodwill Games.

 ** _"Her name's Julie, not 'Babe'."_**

Adam chuckled at the awkward memory. He had received plenty of ribbing from the guys – Jesse in particular – for that one. But was that really the clue? Looking back on it, Adam was amazed that he had even bothered to stick up for the goalie in the first place. He chalked it up to the frustration he had been feeling, along with the rest of his teammates, in getting humiliated by Iceland the day before.

 _Well, that...and you were madly in love,_ a voice in Adam's head teased. _And you still are!_

 _Oh, shut up,_ an opposing voice fired back.

He turned his gaze back to the computer screen and willed his mind to concentrate on a response to Jesse. Given all the drama that he had been experiencing, he was in no mood to put his correspondence with Jesse at risk by giving a delayed reply.

 _Dear Jesse,_

 _Thanks for the quick reply to my last email, and for all your encouragement._

 _I'd tell you to stop calling me 'Cake Eater,' but at least it's not 'Banksie,' so I can forgive you ;)_

 _I'd also tell you that I'm shocked that the Ducks aren't writing to you…but that would be a lie. They couldn't ditch me fast enough when the going got tough, so it comes as no surprise that they've been fairweather friends to you too. You say that the Ducks are special and can't be replaced. I wish you were wrong, but you're not._

 _There is someone who is offering to replace them for me…Paul Larson. I have to admit, every day I get a little more tempted to bring him back into my life. I know, he's horrible, even for a Hawk. And I'm horrible for even thinking about friendship with him. But I can't help it._

 _Keep writing to me. It'll make me less tempted to rejoin the Dark Side._

 _Seriously, I mean that!_

 _As for Julie, you're way off there. She was a teammate like any other, and I only corrected Portman because I had to take out my Iceland frustration on someone, anyone really. Not only had Iceland humiliated us the day before, but you remember what Sandersson did to my wrist. I was ready to fight anyone at that point. Portman just happened to be standing nearby.  
_

 _I'm glad you're making friends in Florida! Wish me luck in making some new ones here._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Adam_

After a quick proof-reading, Adam hit 'send'. He hoped that he would hear from Jesse Hall before hearing from Paul Larson again.

* * *

After several days of playing hooky, a grim Charlie returned to campus. Not only had Fulton left his side to return to Eden Hall, but the former Duck captain had been given devastating news from his mother. Charlie no longer had the energy to act out, having been completely drained by personal tragedy.

Apart from the fatigue that came with depression, Charlie was subdued for another reason: he wanted to do one last service for Hans.

So he got himself together best as he could and went door-to-door to inform each of his teammates that Hans had passed, and that the funeral was to be on Saturday. He didn't feel up to taking the elaborate, evasive action required to reach Connie and Julie in the girls' dormitory, so he broke the news to them with a phone call.

Last on his list was Luis.

Having to repeat the grim news over and over again had taken a toll on Charlie, and his soft raps at the door could hardly be heard inside the dorm room. Adam was wondering if his ears were playing tricks on him as he silently worked at his desk. But the soft, mysterious sounds persisted, so he got up and opened the door.

"Hans is dead," came a hoarse voice.

Adam looked down to see the tear-stained face of Charlie Conway and instinctively wrapped Captain Duck in a hug before his mind could tell him not to.

But Charlie returned the gesture, which startled Adam and caused him to recoil.

"Sorry about that," Adam offered. "And I'm sorry about Hans. Do you wanna come in?"

Charlie shook his head.

"Nah, I just wanted to let you guys know," he peered over Adam's shoulder to see an empty room. "Tell Luis when he gets back for me, will ya?"

"Of course."

"Thanks," Charlie replied. "The funeral is this Saturday, at 1. Jan and the in-state parents will pick us up at the main entrance at around 12:30."

"I'll be there."

"Thanks, man," Charlie sighed. "Well, I better get going."

Adam watched as a deflated Charlie shuffled down the hallway. The old Hawk had never known the old D5er to be anything other than sunny and optimistic. Clearly, Adam was not the only person that this young-but-already-miserable school year had taken a toll on.

"Hey, Charlie!"

The JV forward turned to face the Varsity forward.

"You sure you don't want to come in?" Adam asked. "I've got _Tommy Boy_ on tape," he added with a faint smile.

Against all of Adam's expectations, Charlie met his gaze with a mischievous pair of green eyes.

"You're not gonna try and put the moves on me again, are you?" Charlie asked, alluding to their surprise hug.

"Hmmpf," Adam huffed in mock-offense. "I try to be nice, and this is the thanks I get."

"Sorry, man. You know something? I think I'll take you up on that."

Adam opened the door wider to allow Charlie into the cramped freshman dorm, and the two old rivals forgot their problems for ninety minutes as they watched another complicated friendship play out on the TV screen.

* * *

After a solemn Lutheran service, the funeral party gathered at the cemetery to give the kindly old skate merchant his final sendoff. While Jan, along with the Ducks, wore black mourning clothes, the women in Hans' family wore traditional Scandinavian garb.

Adam had never known the recently-departed all that well. As a Hawk, he had always gone to a rival skate shop in Edina, whose proprietor was an old family friend of the Banks'. As result, even after he had become a Duck, Adam had little to do with Hans and Jan's skate shop.

But the Varsity forward felt genuine grief. Not so much for a man that he barely knew, but for his old friends who were obviously crushed. This school year had not been easy on anyone in their circle.

Adam had been solemn, respectful, and dignified the entire time, but even he could not hold back tears after Gordon Bombay had arrived and draped a classic green-and-gold Duck jersey over the closed casket. The jersey bore the number 11 and the name Hans.

Gordon stood back from the casket and turned toward the teenagers.

" **Every time you touch the ice, remember it was Hans that taught us to fly."**

The former Duck coach could never forget how the old man had pulled him back from the abyss, restored his love for the ice and the game, and had inspired him to pass that love onto the newly-formed Mighty Ducks. If Gordon Bombay was the father of the team, Hans was its grandfather.

Charlie broke down as Gordon's words sunk in. The former captain quickly turned and moved away from the rest of his teammates, desperate to be alone.


	25. Back from the Brink

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Back from the Brink  
**

Charlie awoke, dazed and confused.

Some cruel person had set the alarm on his clock radio to 6am. Whoever the guilty party, it wasn't Charlie. It was a Sunday morning, after all. He had nowhere that he needed to be, and more importantly, he had nowhere that he _wanted_ to be. Having attended Hans' funeral the day before, Charlie found himself unable to resist the slide into depression. Once the 14-year old had arrived home, he got out of his mourning clothes and went straight to bed – not even waiting for the sun to set.

He sat up on his elbows and wondered aloud who could have set the alarm.

" **I did,"** came a soft, familiar voice.

Charlie turned with a start to see a fully-dressed Gordon Bombay sitting at the foot of his bed.

" **Morning, Charlie,"** the man continued. **"I thought we'd spend the day together, get an early start. Come on,"** he added with a pat on the ankle through the sheets.

" **Go away,"** Charlie muttered, turning back to his pillows. **"Hans is gone and I want to be alone."**

" **Charlie, I know you're going through a rough time. I understand. You know, not a day goes by where I don't think of you and the Ducks."**

Charlie glared at his former coach.

" **There are no** ** _Ducks,"_** he insisted. **"Orion split us apart. You know, you left us with a real jerk."**

" **Well maybe you don't know the whole story. Come on, get dressed. Let's go!"**

" **Go _away!"_**

 **"Can't do that. Come on."**

Gordon got to his feet and walked around to the other side of Charlie's bed.

But the teen found a way to make lying facedown an act of defiance. Figuring that Gordon would give up sooner rather than later, Charlie attempted to go back to sleep. Suddenly, he tumbled onto the floor as Gordon lifted the side of the mattress.

" **Get dressed, Charlie."**

The boy grunted, but complied. He figured that it would be easier just to follow Gordon to wherever, then return to bed where he could be undisturbed. Once Charlie had gotten dressed, Gordon drove him to campus. Charlie half-expected to be led into an intervention, where the Ducks would gather round and tell Charlie how much they love him, worry about him, and want him back on the team. He cringed at the thought.

As Gordon led Charlie into Eden Hall Arena, the boy felt that his suspicions had been confirmed.

But instead of leading Charlie into the JV locker room, the old Duck coach led his former captain into the dimly-lit stands. The place was deserted, but the _Waltz of the Flowers_ from Tchaikovsky's _Nutcracker Suite_ could be heard playing softly over the arena's speakers.

Things just kept getting weirder and weirder.

" **What is this all about?"** Charlie demanded.

" **Sit down,"** Gordon instructed, taking a seat on the bleachers.

 _Whatever._

But Charlie complied, anxious to get whatever this was out of the way and so he could return to bed.

He watched as a man in a white sweater and black sweatpants led a girl in a wheelchair out onto the ice. It soon became obvious that the man pushing the young girl was none other than Coach Orion.

 _What the..?_

" **That's his daughter,"** Gordon explained, leaning in.

Charlie watched the father/daughter tandem skate to the famous Russian waltz, the girl spreading her arms wide and taking in the brisk arena air. Even from the distance, Charlie could see that Orion had a big, loving grin on his face. The boy was so used to his new coach's stern visage that he thought the former pro was incapable of smiling.

" **She was injured in a car accident about five years ago. He was driving and they got sideswiped,"** Gordon continued.

" **So that's why he gave up playing pros,"** Charlie reasoned.

" **When the North Stars left Minnesota he stayed. He didn't want to disrupt her recovery – her doctors and friends were here."**

" **And I thought he was just some washed-up bully who couldn't hack it,"** Charlie admitted.

" **Oh, he could hack it, Charlie. He just simply made a choice. And I don't think he's ever regretted it for a minute."**

" **Come on,"** Gordon beckoned, rising to his feet.

Charlie followed his former coach down to the school's Main Academic Building. Gordon had nowhere specific to go, but he knew that Charlie needed his guidance. Satisfied that the boy's attitude toward Orion had softened at least somewhat, Gordon decided to press on and see if he could be nudged back to where he needed to be. Despite all that had happened, Gordon was still – and would always be – the coach of Charlie Conway and any other Duck who needed hm. He didn't need a bench or a formal roster to coax his Ducks into putting their best foot forward.

The canny ex-lawyer knew that the teenager was at the lowest point in his young life. It reminded Gordon of his own nadir.

" **I was like you, Charlie,"** he began. **"When I played hockey, I was a total hotshot – I tried to take control of every game. Wound up quitting. So I tried the law. Same thing. I ruled in the court room, but inside** ** _I'm a mess._** **I start drinking. Man, I was going down. But then this…great thing happened. Maybe the best thing ever. I got arrested, and sentenced to community service."**

The boy was beginning to see where his former coach was going, and his green eyes took on a misty sheen as he anticipated his arrival into the story.

" **And there you were,"** the older man continued. **"Charlie and the Ducks. And as hard as I fought it, there you were. You gave me a life, Charlie. And I want to say thank you."**

Charlie hadn't expected Gordon to be so frank; offguard, the boy was unable to find his voice. But that suited Gordon, as he had still more to say.

" **I told Orion about all of this when I talked to him about taking over. I told him that you were the heart of the team. And that you would learn something from each other. I told him…that** ** _you_** **were the real Minnesota Miracle Man."**

The boy gasped at his former coach's praise as the tears began to fall. Charlie had felt useless ever since he had lost his 'C,' and the despair he felt had caused him to lash out and abandon his team. The unwillingness of his teammates – except Fulton – to follow him off the ice that day had only intensified his sense of uselessness. Then, Fulton returned to the team, and Hans passed away. After breaking down at the funeral, Charlie didn't think he had anything left in him to cry anymore, but Gordon's faith in him had proven him wrong.

Despite the emotional stirring, Charlie found his voice and willed himself to speak.

" **You did?"**

" **I did,"** Gordon confirmed. **"So be that man, Charlie. Be that man."**

Charlie wrapped his old coach – who was now shorter than him – into a hug. His longing to return to bed had vanished, and now more than ever, he wanted to be with his team.

* * *

Having skipped a team meeting to attend Hans' funeral, Adam was unceremoniously expelled from the Varsity table at breakfast on Sunday. No longer welcome among his teammates, Adam decided to sit at the one table that always had room to spare. He thought nothing of sitting with the lowly nerds, he was just grateful to get away from the looks of contempt and suspicion that his Varsity teammates had beaten him over the head with day in and day out.

Sitting from his spot at the Lone Wolves' table, Larson observed Adam approach the Nerds.

 _Cast away. He's been cast away. Oh…this is perfect!_

Without breathing a word, the ex-defenseman got to his feet and approached the third member of the former Golden Trio.

"Hey, Adam," he called. "What's up?"

Adam felt a brief rush of adrenalin as he heard Larson's low voice, but he managed to remain outwardly calm. The forward turned and met his former friend's ebony gaze.

"Not much," Adam replied. "Just finding a new seat."

"Plenty of room at _our_ table," Larson offered, gesturing toward the Lone Wolves with his hand.

Despite the anxiety that Larson elicited in Adam, the forward did not dismiss the defenseman's suggestion out of hand. Adam had enjoyed a reconciliation with the Ducks at the funeral. But he could not shake the feeling that was only a passing thing; unique, unrepeatable circumstances brought on by tragedy. The Ducks had all gone their separate ways after the event, and Adam was left alone in his dorm while Luis continued to work his charm on Mindy.

It seemed obvious to Adam that JV had welcomed him as a grieving buddy, but now the grieving was over.

"Why not?" Adam asked rhetorically. "I guess I'll sit with you."

Larson smiled.

"Right this way then."

Larson led Adam over to the Lone Wolves, and took his usual seat next to Vicki. McGill was still sleeping in on the Sunday morning.

"Vicki, this is Adam. Adam, Vicki."

The two exchanged brief pleasantries. Though the green-eyed brunette was on the pretty side, she was no Julie Gaffney, and Adam did not feel the least bit nervous around her. But as soon as he got settled, he was disturbed by a plaintive wail.

He turned to see a scarlet-faced cheerleader run out the dining hall, tears streaming down her cheeks.

 _So dramatic._

He turned back to his new table and observed Larson with what appeared to be a thin, _Mona Lisa-_ like smile.

"What?" Adam asked.

Aware that he was being scrutinized, Larson slid his blank face back on.

"What do you mean, 'what'?" He asked.

"You seemed to be smiling about something."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Before Adam could press him, Larson turned and whispered something into Vicki's ear. The brunette nodded before moving to leave.

"It was nice to meet you, Adam," she offered.

"Um, likewise," he replied. "Leaving already?"

"I think Lindsay could use a shoulder to cry on," Vicki explained. "See ya later!"

And with that, the preppy brunette left the dining hall in pursuit of the weeping cheerleader.

Adam turned back to face Larson.

"So, how 'bout those Vikings, eh?" Larson asked. "They look really good, like they could go all the way this season."

"Uh, yeah. I guess," Adam mumbled, unable to even feign an interest in football. "Did you just tell Vicki to go after that cheerleader?"

Larson gave just the faintest of shrugs.

"I don't see how that's any of your business, but yes," he answered. "We all need a little comfort every now and then – and Vicki's good at that."

But Adam knew Larson too well to believe that his fellow ex-Hawk had altruistic intentions. There had to be something in it for Larson, or he never would have acted.

 _But what?_

"Ok, Paul," Adam replied. "What's this all about?"

Larson cocked an eyebrow, inviting Adam to elaborate.

"Come on, it's me," Adam pressed. "I know you. What's helping Lindsay gonna do for you?"

"Nothing, to be honest," Larson shrugged. "But breaking Lindsay and Todd up could provide Jake with a girl to date. You know...for appearance purposes."

Larson had still taken care to ensure that Vicki thought of McGill as a closeted gay in need of a public girlfriend in order to appear straight; the bit about 'appearance purposes' struck Adam as confusing and odd, but it proved his point: Larson was up to something. And apparently, he had conspired to get Todd Simmons to dump his cheerleading girlfriend.

Adam chuckled as he got up from his seat.

"What?" Larson asked, his dark eyes betraying a hint of worry.

"A small part of me thought maybe…just _maybe_ …you changed. And I was right. You've actually gotten even worse."

Larson's eyes narrowed, but he managed a slight smile that he hoped look reassuring.

"Everything I do, I do for Jake's own good," he countered. "It's the two of us against the world. Now, I want it to again be the _three_ of us against the world. I'll take good care of you, don't worry…. _us against the world?"_

"I'll fight my own battles, thank you."

Larson flashed a reptilian smile. Despite Adam's protests, he was confident that the forward would come crawling back to him. So what if Adam wanted to do a little grandstanding? JV hated him, and Varsity had just disowned him. He had nowhere to go, and Larson knew it.

"Suit yourself, Adam," he said gently. "At least your new friends can help you with your algebra."

"You're right. Goodbye."

Larson's eyes widened in shock as Adam turned and made his way to the Nerd table. As the former defenseman watched the forward take his seat among the dazed nerds who were stunned that a Jock wanted to hang out with them. Larson's fists cracked beneath his table as he witnessed the spectacle.

 _That little twerp. I could have given him everything!_

With Adam's good looks and lack of confidence, Larson had figured that he had found the perfect frontman in his scheme to dominate the student body. People would gravitate toward Adam because he was a handsome jock. But Larson knew all too well that 'self-confident' was not an apt description for the quiet forward. He figured that he could easily have been the power behind Adam's throne, but his former friend had other ideas.

 _He actually chose_ NERDS _over me!_

Larson snapped out of his furious stupor when Vicki took her seat next to him.

"Hey, baby," she greeted him with a peck on the cheek. "Lindsay's out with Jake right now."

A broad smile lit up across Larson's coarse features. His comely companion was proving to be a useful henchwoman.

"Good work," he offered, rising from his seat. "If Jake's out, we might as well go to my room."

Vicki returned the grin, and eagerly got up to follow Larson out.

After watching Adam spurn him for a bunch of hopeless, acne-ridden nerds, Larson had a lot of aggression to vent. Vicki would have to do.

He smiled wolfishly as he gripped her delicate hand and led her away.

After a few minutes of awkward conversation that consisted mainly of Adam assuring the nerds that he wasn't going to beat them up for money, the soft-spoken forward settled in and tried to finish his breakfast. The gossipy student body would see him sitting with the Nerds, and he would never be able to live that down. But he didn't care. What good were friends when they were always so fickle? Why impress people who would only stab you in the back the instant you became inconvenient to them?

The nerds looked on with apprehension as the brooding hockey player repeatedly stabbed his scrambled eggs with a plastic fork.

Apparently, he didn't want their money. But he seemed _awfully_ tense. And tall. And muscular.

 _What the hell does he want?_

That was the question that all the nerds asked to themselves, but none dared to verbalize.

Adam continued the assault on his eggs. _Stab, stab, stab….stab, stab, stab…stab, stab._

One brave nerd with greasy, jet-black hair and thick glasses finally spoke up.

"I guess you like your eggs over-easy," Teddy Harper quipped as he observed the scrambled eggs get crushed into a runny, yellow goo.

Surprised that someone was talking to him, Adam looked up from his tray with a start. His intense sapphire eyes inquisitive, but menacing in appearance to the weaker boys.

"I'll shut up now," Teddy offered, putting his head back down.

As Adam observed the rest of the nerds timidly look away from him, he began to regret _not_ demanding any money from them. He didn't need the extra cash, but that was hardly the point. They would give it to him… _those pathetic, useless little twerps._ He could dominate them. He could be feared and respected, just like he had been in his days of running in the Golden Trio.

Adam grinned fiendishly at the thought.

He didn't need to be Larson's slave. He could start his own empire within the student body. And if anyone was brave enough – or _dumb_ enough – to make fun of him for sitting with the Nerds one Sunday morning in the dining hall…he'd simply beat them til they pissed purple.

No longer a Duck, and never a true Warrior, Adam's old Hawk instincts returned to the forefront as he entertained visions of pounding twerps into submission and manipulating preps. And beating Paul Larson at his own game.

 _Who needs friends when you can have minions?_

But Adam was drawn out of his dark, vindictive brooding when he felt a soft hand land on his shoulder.

He turned with a start, his eyes widening nervously at the sight of Julie Gaffney.

There she was, smiling broadly and looking ready to hit the gym in her pink T-shirt and black mesh shorts.

"Hey," she greeted him. "We're gonna go play some roller hockey, you wanna join us?"

Adam willed himself to a neutral expression, which took some serious doing. Julie Gaffney was one of those girls who seemed to get even prettier the more she dressed-down. No elaborate ball gown, fancy hairdo, or face full of makeup were needed for her. Then there was that smile. That easy, heartwarming smile. Adam figured that she was probably had no clue what effect it had on people, but that suited him fine. It was sweet and innocent – not at all malicious or conniving.

Smiles had typically served to mask wicked intent in Adam's life, and the innocence of Julie's smile made it particularly magnetic.

"Uh, sure," he managed at last. "I could go for some roller hockey."

"Great," she replied, her grin still firmly in place.

The fact that the pretty goalie was standing still and not walking off to join her departing teammates had confused Adam. And it showed on his face as he continued to stare at Julie.

"Um…aren't you gonna put away your tray?" She asked, her smile fading.

"Oh, of course!"

He shot up from the table, grabbed his tray, and made for the conveyor that led to the dishwashers. Julie continued to surprise him by following him, but he figured that she was sticking to him so she could lead him to the game site.

Fulton had suggested the game, and his fellow Ducks were eager to take advantage of the mild September weather. Besides, the ice at the school's arena was for official use only. Given the Charlie/Orion drama and the death of Hans, the Ducks were in desperate need of distraction. When Fulton asked for a volunteer to go and fetch Adam, Julie volunteered, but had not thought much of it.

It was only when she had approached her former teammate that she really began to notice how well he had developed over the past year. He was a taller and more muscular version of the blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy from the Junior Goodwill Games; and Julie had finally overcome her tweener aversion to boys. But she managed to keep it together long enough to invite him to the game.

After changing into a white T-shirt and a pair of navy blue sweats, Adam grabbed his pads, rollerblades, hockey stick, and black bike helmet. Before leaving his dorm, he also took care to scribble down his contact information in his blue notepad. And he never went anywhere without his trusty Swiss Army knife, so that had to go too. He hoped that his handwriting had been legible, as he intended to give his email address and phone number to Julie.

 _Will she really be able to read this though?_

But he decided to chance that, rather than keep her waiting by re-writing his contact information.

Julie had grabbed her gear while Adam had changed and was waiting for him just outside the front door to the boys' dormitory.

"Hey," she greeted him with that smile of hers. "Let's go!"

"Yeah, let's!" Adam enthused as they began rolling on their blades.

 _Ok, it's just the two of you. Hand her your contact information, then ask for hers. Give her the pad and pencil. Nothing could be simpler._

"Nice weather today, isn't it?" He asked instead.

"Yep," she agreed.

 _Ok, you didn't have to do it right away, that's cool._ Now _do it!_

"Looks like the Bruins have their work cut out for them this year without Neely," he said instead.

Julie turned with a slight start. Apparently Adam had remembered that she was a New Englander – and it could reasonably be assumed that she was hopelessly devoted to the Boston Bruins and Red Sox.

"Yeah, it won't be easy," she conceded. "But nothing lasts forever."

 _You're telling me. Like friendship, for example._

"And New York signed Gretzky last summer," Adam pointed out. "And they already had Messier – so the Rangers will probably dominate the Eastern Conference."

Like a good New Englander, Julie winced at the mention of a New York-based sports team.

Adam noticed the gesture, and was alarmed.

"But it's a long season," he offered. "Anything can happen."

She gave a slight smile.

"I guess. So who's your favorite team?"

"The Dallas Stars."

Her eyes widened at the Minnesota boy's devotion to a team that had packed its bags and moved to Texas three years earlier.

"Come again?" She asked.

"Heh, yeah," Adam chortled. "Most people here thought the Stars could go to hell after they left. But I'm sticking with them."

He thought about mentioning his fanatical devotion to Mike Modano. But as truthful as that would have been, it would have sounded odd to say the least, so he decided against it.

"Oh, well that's cool that you still like them," Julie replied.

She was amazed that anyone could be _that_ loyal – and she came from a family that had remained loyal to a hockey team that hadn't won a Stanley Cup since 1972, and a baseball team that hadn't won a World Series since 1918. And the less said about the New England Patriots, the better.

Julie had known Adam only a little bit from their time at the Junior Goodwill Games, and they had not remained in contact after going their separate ways. But she knew him to be an amazing hockey player with an unrivaled work ethic. And there was no denying that he knew a thing or two about loyalty if he had stuck with a team that left him for another state.

She was beginning to feel intrigued by the tall, quiet forward.

They continued to talk hockey on their way to meet up with the rest of the Ducks, with Adam having forgotten all about the contact information in his blue notepad.

* * *

The Ducks had already played a full game of roller hockey and were beginning another one when Gordon and Charlie approached the chain-link fence that separated the basketball court from the sidewalk.

" **There they are,"** Gordon pointed out. **"The same old Ducks. Nothing's changed, Charlie."**

" **Hey, it's Coach Bombay!"** Dwayne called out.

" **Damn, Conway! What took you so long?"** Russ asked. **"Come on, get in the game!"**

" **Yeah, come on!"** Dwayne agreed, gesturing at Charlie to enter.

Charlie excitedly joined in, along with Gordon.

As Charlie flew along on the pavement, he had no doubt in his mind where he belonged. After all of his tantrums and his dramatic exit, his teammates had welcomed him back like nothing had ever happened. Gordon, on the other hand, was less lucky. After finishing their game, his former players grabbed him and stuffed him in one of the trash cans that had served as a net.

Gordon figured that it was fair payback for leaving them at Eden Hall, but he accepted his punishment with good humor, and none of the kids really seemed to hold a grudge.

With Fulton, Adam and Charlie back in the fold, and Gordon not due to leave town for a while, things seemed to be looking up for the Ducks for the first time since their inauspicious start at Eden Hall.

* * *

Dean Buckley looked up from the podium in the Trustees' boardroom. The Board had been unanimous in voting to revoke the Ducks' scholarships. The new Headmaster had been excited about welcoming the Gold Medal winners, along with their celebrity coach and distinguished Eden Hall alumnus Gordon Bombay.

But things had not gone according to plan. Gordon had left, and JV was not producing. They had not even begun the regular season, but their pre-season performance was so dismal that Tom Riley had convinced his colleagues to ditch the Ducks, without meeting any resistance.

"The motion is approved," Buckley declared. "I shall notify JV when I deem it prudent."


	26. Picking up the Trash

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Picking up the Trash**

Luis watched, amused and confused as Adam tied a windsor knot like it was the most natural thing in the world. The Varsity forward studied his reflection in the long mirror that lined the inside of his door – not out of vanity, but more out of his gnawing perfectionism.

 _And now, the finishing touch._

"Could you hand me a clip, Luis?"

"What, like a paper clip?"

The preppy forward chuckled.

"Never mind, I got it."

Adam turned to the small dresser in his closet to fetch the item. He shared the cramped living space with the Miami speedster, but found him easy enough to room with. Each freshman dorm had separate twin beds along opposite walls and beneath the windows that looked out into the courtyard. At the foot of Adam's bed stood the TV that the boys shared, while the combined microfridge unit occupied the space in front of Luis' bed. Identical wooden desks stood next to each other along a wall, opposite of the separate miniature closets for each of the boys.

Adam reached into the top drawer and grasped a tiny, gray dimple clip before returning to the door mirror. After pinching the top of his blue argyle tie's long end, he slid the clip over the dimple and beneath the knot to lock the dimple into place.

"Has anyone ever told you that you overdress?" Luis asked.

"No, you're the first," Adam deadpanned. "Besides, we're meeting with the Trustees. We can't just walk in there in gym clothes."

"I know that," Luis retorted. "Why else do you think I bothered with _this?"_

The Floridian ran a hand over his open-collared white dress shirt and brown blazer.

"A necktie never hurt anyone," said Adam.

"Odd…you'd think that it would," Luis figured. "I mean it's wrapped around your neck like a noose. The only other things you'd need are a stool and a nice, sturdy pipe."

Adam rolled his eyes but couldn't resist a laugh.

"You're morbid, but you're alright," he offered. "Besides, I thought you wanted to look good for Mindy. She's going to be there, isn't she?"

"Yeah, but she's already got enough blue-blooded stiffs trying to get her attention….er…no offense."

Adam rolled his eyes again before Luis continued.

"I figure she'd be into a more casual guy. You know…something different."

"Maybe," Adam shrugged. "I don't really know anything about girls."

"True," Luis teased, joining Adam at the door. "You couldn't even give one of them your contact info."

Adam's eyes widened in horror.

"How did you know?!"

An appallingly satisfied grin beamed across Luis' face.

"Well, I figured that you didn't need to remind yourself what your own info was," the Floridian explained. "So it must have been for somebody else…a girl, perhaps?"

"But, how…"

Adam frantically patted his pockets in search of his trusty blue notepad, only to come up empty. He looked over to his desk. It sat alone on the leather blotter, open to the page containing the contact information that he had chickened out of giving to Julie. He looked back to Luis, whose grin remained firmly in place.

 _Sneaky little bastard._

Adam snatched the pad, flipped the blue cover down and shoved it into the left front pocket of his gray dress slacks. After taking care to place his Swiss Army knife in his front right pocket, as per usual, he slipped into his navy sport coat, then opened the door.

"We better get going, Luis."

At last, the Floridian's grin faded as he followed Adam out. But as Adam turned to lock their room behind them, Luis decided to press him.

"So…who's the lucky lady?"

"No one," Adam snapped. "In case I lose the pad, whoever finds it will be able to return it to me."

Luis chuckled.

"What, so that gigantic heap of notepads you keep under your bed can't replace one lost pad?"

After turning the door knob to ensure that it was locked, Adam turned and began walking down the hall with Luis in toe.

"I guess not," Luis answered his own question.

But Adam refused to be drawn into his roommate's questioning during the walk to the Trustees' boardroom in the Main Academic Building. Adam was introverted enough to be comfortable with silence, but that was an advantage that Luis did not himself possess. The Minnesotan's stonewalling made the Floridian uncomfortable, so he changed the subject to the impending board meeting they were due to attend – though the identity of Adam's mystery girl continued to gnaw at the back of his mind.

"So you like our chances with the Board?"

"I really don't know," Adam shrugged.

"I thought your dad was a lawyer."

"I try to steer clear of that world."

Though they surely existed, Adam could not imagine a more dreadful occupation than that of lawyer. Having to comb through mountains of legal jargon and argue in front of a stone-faced judge who could torpedo an entire case with just one utterance from his perch behind an imposing fortress in a grim courtroom. Adam had gone to watch his father at court one day, and had been struck by the sign leading into the gallery that warned vsitors not to talk, laugh, or even smile smile during the proceedings.

He imagined that the upcoming Board meeting would be every bit as joyless an affair.

The forward simply could not understand why anyone would want to live in that kind of world when they could glide across the ice with loyal teammates to the enthusiastic cheers of fans.

"But speaking of lawyers," Adam continued, "is Bombay still in town?"

"I don't know," Luis shrugged. "But we could definitely use the help. Why wasn't your dad available?"

Adam resisted the urge to laugh out loud at the thought of his father actually doing _pro bono_ work.

"He was otherwise engaged," he answered tactfully.

"Ah, see! Lawyer-talk!" Luis exlaimed. "You _so_ could be a lawyer if hockey doesn't work out. Or maybe a politician, once you get over your stage fright."

Adam cringed as he opened the door to the boardroom where Coach Orion and the rest of the Ducks were already waiting.

"I'm gonna pretend that I didn't hear any of that," he replied, ushering Luis inside.

The two approached their friends, who, along with a few well-wishers that included Linda, stood in nervous silence by the stained glass windows. The Trustees had all taken their seats around the long table at the center of the room. On the other side of the table, Varsity gleefully awaited the official expulsion of the hated _L_ _ittle Duckies._

Adam's heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight of Julie in a long-sleeved, light blue dress shirt and long black skirt. The light color of her top made her fair skin appear darker, which made it impossible for him to look away.

"Hey," she greeted him with a slight smile.

"Hey…."

Before he could say any more, Dean Buckley got into position behind the podium and called the group to order with the tap of a gavel.

The similarities between this dreary setting and a courtroom had the effect of sinking Adam's spirits. He stood quietly behind Julie as Buckley began speaking.

The Headmaster proceeded to go into another of his long-winded spiels about school history and Eden Hall's proud tradition of athletic and scholastic rigor, which had the effect of uniting the opposing factions assembled in a common sense of tedium. As one elderly Trustee at the end of the table began to nod off, Buckley suddenly remembered the point of the meeting.

"I believe Mr. Riley has a motion for the Board's consideration?"

Tom Riley gave a short nod, grateful that he hadn't fallen asleep during Buckley's opening monologue.

"I move that the scholarships of the Junior Varsity Hockey Team be revoked, effective Spring Semester," the Riley patriarch declared.

"Is there a second?" Buckley asked.

An elderly woman in a scarlet pantsuit raised her hand.

Buckley looked across the table.

"All in favor?"

A clear majority of the Trustees raised their hands in agreement.

"All opposed?"

Only one hand raised in dissent while two other Trustees abstained.

" **Do I have a motion for reconsideration?"** Buckley asked.

None of the Trustees agreed to that.

" **I'm sorry, Coach,"** Buckley offered to Orion. **"But unless there is a motion from a Board member, and a second…the decision must stand."**

Orion made a slight, but dramatic sigh.

" **You leave us no choice…but to bring in our attorney."**

The Board broke into furious whispers of consternation and confusion as Gordon Bombay strolled in, briefcase in hand.

" **Dean Buckley, members of the Board,"** Gordon began, approachinng the podium. **"As counsel for Coach Orion, and the Freshman hockey team, I'm here to set forth your legal options so that you may make the best possible legal decision for all parties concerned."**

" **Mr. Bombay, this isn't a legal proceeding,"** Buckley protested.

" **Not yet. But I can assure you that it will be."** Gordon handed his briefcase to Buckley. **"You mind?"**

The surprised headmaster took the briefcase in his hands while Gordon opened it and retrieved a leather folder containing a scholarship offer.

" **These scholarships…an offer…became a** ** _binding contract_** **upon the signatures of the recipients. An acceptance by the Ducks, that cannot be voided except by cause, which I** ** _guarantee_** **you have none. Should you decide to pursue their cancellation, I will** ** _slap_** **you with an injunction. I will tie this matter up in court for years, 'til long after these kids had gone on to college. And I** ** _will_** **collect damages. I** ** _will_** **win. Because I am very,** ** _very_** **good.** "

Gordon set the folder down and leaned over the table, resting on his palms in an authoritative pose.

" **And you know why I'm so good?"** He asked rhetorically. **"Because I had a good education. You gave it to me. And you're gonna give it to these kids."**

" **He** ** _is_** **good,"** Orion murmured.

" **Just getting started,"** Charlie whispered back.

" **Now some of you may be snobbish enough to believe that these Ducks don't belong at Eden Hall,"** Gordon continued, as Riley snorted and Scooter smirked in contempt. **"But let me tell you, you are** ** _dead wrong._** **These are remarkable young people. You give them their full shot, and I promise you that they will succeed not only on the ice, but in the classroom as well. These people are my friends, and I know what they can do. Accordingly, I demand that you reinstate their scholarships…for their benefit,** ** _and_** **for your own."**

After a few more furious whispers among the Trustees, the lady in red spoke up.

" **I move that the scholarships be…** ** _reinstated,"_** she grudgingly declared.

" **Is there a second?** " Buckley asked.

A middle-aged man with brown hair and a slate-colored suit sitting next to the lady in red raised his hand.

" **All in favor?"** Buckley called out.

Gradually, all Trustee hands – including Tom Riley's – reluctantly rose in assent.

" **Scholarships reinstated,"** Buckley declared before tapping his gavel and adjourning the meeting.

JV and their supporters erupted into applause while the Varsity squad looked on in disgust. Having played just about every dirty trick that had been up their sleeve, Varsity was left with only one way to defeat JV: on the ice. Although Tom Riley had lost his expulsion battle, he had won the battle of the calendar. The annual Varsity/JV scrimmage had been moved up from the end of the regular season to the end of pre-season. The old Trustee had wanted to humiliate the Ducks on their way out, but now JV would play Varsity, secure in their standing at the school.

But that did not deter his son, Rick.

After Gordon said goodbye to his former players and announced that he had **"b** **usiness in Chicago,"** Varsity confronted JV in the hallway outside the boardroom.

" **Congratulations... on destroying our school,"** Riley sneered.

" **It's our school too,"** Ken protested.

" **It's** ** _everyone's_** **school, you stupid jock,"** Linda declared.

" **No, it'll** ** _never_** **be your school, don't you get it? You're our own little Affirmative Action brought in for color to entertain us, but you couldn't even do that. Your fancy lawyer kept you in on a technicality. But you'll never belong."**

" **You'll never be anything more than a bunch of rejects here on a free ride,"** Cole added.

" ** _Free ride?!"_** Russ shot back. **"Look at you, rich boy! Mommy and Daddy gave you everything!"**

" **Hey, JV/Varsity game is on Friday,"** Riley announced. **"Then we'll show the whole school what a joke you really are. Then maybe you'll leave on your own…it'd be the** ** _honorable_** **thing to do."**

" **You know we're gonna hurt you,"** Cole threatened.

" **You guys had an unfair advantage last time,"** Charlie protested. **"You had one of us…Banksie."**

Satisfied that he really was a Duck again, Adam felt a warm glow despite being referred to by his hated nickname.

" **Well keep him,"** Riley offered. **"He never had the heart of a Warrior anyway.**

" **Hey Biff, one more thing,"** Russ began. **"After we beat you, the Warriors die, and the Ducks fly."**

" **Anything you say,** ** _loser,"_** Riley scoffed in parting as Varsity turned to leave.

" **Good move, Russ,"** said Averman. **"Make 'em even madder. Hey Charlie, we gotta do something."**

" **You're right,"** Charlie agreed. **"We gotta get to work."**

* * *

JV wasted no time in heading to the arena to practice. After running conditioning exercises in their red-and-white Warrior uniforms, the players gathered around Coach Orion. The former pro had brought a trash can out onto the ice, which startled some of the out-of-state Ducks. The old D5ers, on the other hand, were used to Bombay's practice sessions with footballs and eggs, so the presence of a trash can did not seem especially strange to them.

" **I've been doing my homework on Varsity. I'm not gonna lie to ya, they're good,"** Orion began. **"The way they wiped your faces in the dirt last time, it was no fluke. So if you want your pride back, you better be willing to work. There's nothing glamorous about it. In the pro's, we call it 'blue collar hockey.' Now there's one thing that Varsity does very well…"**

Orion leaned over the trash can and retrieved a piece of garbage.

"… **they're** ** _vultures_** **around the net. They pick up every piece of loose trash. That's how they beat you. Not with the first shot, but with the second, and the third. They bang in the junk. So if you wanna win…"**

He lifted the trash can with both hands and dumped the contents onto the ice.

"… **you're gonna have to pick up the trash."**

Orion began firing pieces of garbage at Julie in the net while the rest of her teammates raced to help block the shots. They used their sticks and their bodies to get between the garbage and their net. It wasn't pretty, but they practiced hard, and Orion succeeded in proving his point. Eventually, JV divided into teams and scrimmaged while their coach went to retrieve a cardboard box from his office.

After scrimmaging for several garbage-deflecting minutes, Orion returned to the ice, resting the cardboard box on top of the gray trash can.

" **Let's go, get over here!"**

JV nervously complied. Their coach sounded angry. They couldn't understand why, as they had been practicing hard and doing all that he had told them to do.

" **Take a knee…you guys are** ** _not_** **skating like Warriors!"**

JV exchanged apprehensive looks.

" **You look like something else,"** Orion continued. **"You look like** ** _Ducks,"_** he added with a grin, retrieving a white-eggplant-and-teal jersey from the box.

* * *

Larson and Vicki took their seats in the bleachers at Eden Hall Arena, along with most of the student body. The Varsity/JV showdown was the big Friday night event on campus, and the hockey-crazed student body buzzed with anticipation. With Varsity representing the school's establishment elite, and JV representing the marginalized segments of the school, even the kids who were not particularly interested in hockey had a stake in the game.

Of course, Larson wanted to see the _Little_ _Duckies_ get annihilated, holding out hope that JV would scapegoat Adam in the event of a loss, thus making him ripe for the taking.

"Are these seats taken?"

Larson looked up to see McGill standing hand-in-hand with Lindsay the cheerleader. Larson greeted the pair with an affable grin.

"I was actually saving them for you guys," he replied, inviting them to sit.

McGill sat down next to his new girlfriend, Larson being pleased with his own handiwork. McGill knew that he owed his dating situation to Larson, and this brought the ex-forward back under the ex-defenseman's power. Of course, Larson figured that he would have to break the two of them up at some point down the road; but for now, he was happy to let McGill enjoy his little blonde cheerleader.

As Larson began working out schemes for Lindsay and McGill's breakup, JV and Varsity hit the ice, prompting the crowd to erupt. After the Ducks tapped the ice with their hands in a brief tribute to Hans, the first lines met at center ice for the opening faceoff.

Soon, bodies would fly, bones would shatter, teeth would fall, and mayhem would ensue as the rival teams pursued the slippery little puck over the treacherous ice. Larson tingled with excitement. He always felt this way at the start of battle, with all the blood, sweat and tears about to be shed.

Down at center ice, Adam squared up against Riley.

" **You're gonna wish like hell that you stuck with us,"** the senior declared.

" **Save the trash talk."**

The puck dropped, and the battle commenced.

Riley won possession and passed it to Brown on the Varsity wing as Adam staggered back to his feet. The Varsity forward bore down one-on-one with Julie and took a shot, which she deflected with her kneepad. Unable to get the puck out of their own zone, the Ducks moved to clog up the scoring lanes as instructed by Orion. Goldberg deflected a shot attempt with his skate but Varsity caught the rebound and fired again.

Julie blocked the shot and covered up, forcing a faceoff.

This time it was Charlie squaring up against Riley.

" **Why'd you come back?"** The Varsity Captain asked.

" **Unfinished business."**

" ** _We'll_** **finish it for ya."**

Charlie knocked Riley down to the ice and won possession, but a Varsity defenseman intercepted Charlie's pass, and the Warriors resumed their assault on the JV net. Once again, Julie made an impressive block, deflecting the puck behind her net where Charlie fished it out. Riley, determined to avenge his lost faceoff, drove Charlie into the boards with a hard check, causing the younger boy to lose possession.

Varsity kept the puck in the JV zone, and continued to press Julie and the Duck defense. After two more saves from Julie, Charlie fished the puck out and slapped it down into the Varsity zone, drawing an icing call from the refs.

" **Way to hang tough,"** Charlie congratulated Julie during the break in play.

Already winded, the goalie simply nodded in reply.

Play resumed and Varsity continued to harass Julie, but the Cat blocked shot after shot before her defense finally coalesced in front of her. Guy blocked a shot and passed it forward to Dwayne, who took off in Scooter's direction. The Texan fired a slap-shot, but Scooter managed to block it with his legs.

After a line change, Varsity's offense came storming back, firing shot after shot, but Julie held strong. After blocking a barrage of pucks, she finally managed to stop play by smothering the puck. During the break in play, Goldberg congratulated his former position rival.

The Ducks defied all expectations of an early bloodbath and kept Minnesota's best scoreless for an entire period of play.

Frustrated with his offense, Varsity Coach Wilson ordered his players to **"** **pick up the hitting,"** and the upperclassmen began using their size to their advantage by mercilessly pummeling the underclassmen, often bending the rules to do so; but the refs were content to let the teams play through it rather than send players to the box. The scrimmage was shaping up to be more brutal than any regular-season game…and a mesmerized Larson ate it all up.

The former Hawk surprised himself by feeling enraged at the sight of Connie taking a hard tumble courtesy of Varsity. Larson felt an almost-overpowering desire to relieve the Varsity goon of his testicles with a rusty buck knife after the senior had dared to hurt his Porcelain Goddess.

Vicki noticed her boyfriend's tenseness.

"Those seniors really are dirty, aren't they?"

"Yes…they are," Larson seethed.

She gripped his hand in an attempt to comfort him, but Larson knew that the dainty little hand in his mitt was not the one he wanted.

 _Porcelain Goddess._

" **Well if you can't beat 'em,** ** _beat 'em!"_** Josh the announcer quipped. **"That seems to be Wilson's message, because Varsity is** ** _really_** **nailing the Ducks now."**

Varsity continued to press, and found itself with a golden scoring opportunity after they had baited Julie out of her net. But she scrambled back just in time and dove across the goal line, just managing to block the incoming puck. The Duck fans erupted in cheers and applause in response to their goalie's effort.

" **She's an A-student too,"** Buckley pointed out to Tom Riley from their box in the stands.

The Duck fans' enthusiasm gave way to worry as they watched Guy Germaine take a ferocious hit, a hit that forced him to leave the game. After a delay in play, Guy tried without success to force his dislocated shoulder back into its socket.

" **It's ok, I can skate,"** he protested as the trainers led him away.

Play resumed and with just seconds remaining in the 2nd period, Charlie rocketed into the Varsity zone on a fast-break. But the veteran Duck was unable to get his shot off before the sound of the buzzer, and the game remained tied at zero going into the 3rd period.

The battered JV squad hobbled into their locker room for the second intermission, where Orion tried to rally his players' spirits.

" **You're playin' hard, I'm proud of you guys."**

" **They're cheap-shotting us to death, Coach,"** Luis protested.

" **It's gonna take a miracle for us to hold on,"** Averman despaired.

Suddenly, the locker room door opened.

" **Dean Portman is awarded a full athletic and academic scholarship to the Eden Hall Academy,"** the Chicago-born defenseman announced as he sauntered in with his trademark blue bandana, dark jeans, and black leather jacket. **"I had this lying around the house in Chicago, my attorney thought I should sign it, I agreed! It's official, boys, I'm back!"**

As Portman's enthusiastic teammates welcomed him back, Charlie approached Orion with a knowing grin.

" **Bombay,"** he suggested, drawing a smile from his coach.

The Ducks returned to the ice with Portman leading the charge out of the tunnel. Though he had been away, the Duck fans in the crowd recognized the charismatic Bash Brother from his unforgettable performances against Iceland. Though his antics had landed him in the penalty box, and even led to his ejection in the first game, Portman had earned himself a considerable following, and the Duck fans rose to their feet to greet the Chicagoan.

" **Who is that kid?"** Tom Riley demanded. **"He can't play!"**

Buckley shrugged.

" **Kid's got a contract, Tom. My hands are tied."**

The Varsity and JV lines got into position ahead of the faceoff, with Portman lined up against Cole.

" **Oh, look, it's the other Bash Brother,"** Cole greeted his JV opposite with mock horror. **"Oooh, I'm really shaking now."**

" **So you're the big enforcer, huh?"** Portman asked in a genial tone. **"You know we got something in common…"**

" **Shut up!"** Cole snapped. **"Let's play hockey."**

" **Whatever you say, Sunshine."**

Play began and once Cole had achieved some separation from Portman, the upperclassman came charging in like a raging bull, desperate to inflict some pain.

" **Let's see what ya got, Bash Brother!"**

Portman flashed a mischievous grin at the Varsity enforcer. Once Cole was close enough, Portman hunched forward, causing Cole to stumble over the Chicagoan's back and go flying through the glass and into the stands.

It was an illegal hit on Portman's part, but no more illegal than Cole charging at a player without the puck. The refs, as usual, swallowed their whistles.

The Bash Brothers inflicted punishing blows on the dazed Varsity squad, and JV was finally able to match Varsity's physicality. Even when the Bash Brothers were off the ice, the energy that they had brought invigorated their teammates; and the Ducks fought on, continuing to hold Varsity to zero with only two minutes remaining in regulation.

Desperate to get something going on offense, Varsity did what it did best: cheat.

Riley took a dive as Portman covered him, drawing a hooking penalty against the Ducks.

Getting two minutes in a game with only two minutes remaining meant that Portman was done, and the Chicagoan vented his frustration in the penalty box by stripping above his waist and doing a little dance.

The ladies of Eden Hall and Josh the announcer enjoyed the spectacle immensely.

As play resumed, Orion ordered a line change, and Wilson pounced.

" **Too many men, Ref! Too many men!"**

The refs acquiesced and sent Ken Wu to the penalty box. With just two minute remaining, Varsity had a 5-3 man advantage on the ice. Orion ordered Charlie, Adam and Goldberg onto the ice. Before sending Charlie on his way, Orion slapped a 'C' onto the boy's chest and told his captain to **"go get 'em."**

Play resumed and Varsity won possession. They attacked the net, and an exhausted Julie had stumbled forward on her last save, leaving the net wide open as Varsity took possession on the rebound.

A Varsity forward fired, but Adam made a diving block across the net, disaster narrowly averted.

He would feel that one the next morning, but he gladly would have done it again if he had to.

Goldberg cleared the puck out of the JV zone, but Varsity took control again as the clock continued to wind down.

One-on-one with Riley, Charlie showed off his defense by forcing the Varsity Captain to do a belly-flop onto the ice, and won back possession with just ten seconds remaining.

Charlie was one-on-one against Scooter. The junior was a formidable goalie, and Charlie had taken Orion and Bombay's advice to heart about not trying to do too much on offense. Rather than take a direct shot at Scooter, Charlie faked, and passed back…to Goldberg.

The entire arena looked on in stunned silence, but no one was more surprised by this development than Greg Goldberg himself. The goalie-turned-defenseman was dazed and temporarily paralyzed.

" **SHOOT, GOLDBERG!"** Orion implored from the bench.

The Varsity defenders, who had bitten on Charlie's fake, moved to close in on Goldberg while Scooter attempted to get back into position. But Goldberg recovered his senses just in time and slapped the puck in for a goal just ahead of the final horn.

" **DUCKS WIN!"** Josh declared, the crowd erupting.

After briefly shaking hands with Wilson, Orion congratulated Charlie.

" **Hell of a pass, Captain!"**

" **Thanks, Coach!"**

Julie moved to join her teammates, but was stopped by Scooter. Her Varsity opposite had a bit of a thing for her, but a crush notwithstanding, he was impressed by her enormous efforts that had resulted in a shutout victory for JV.

" **Great game, Gaffney!"** He offered after kissing her cheek.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she wasn't about to complain.

" **Thanks, Scooter!"**

Further down the ice, Luis was getting his own little award for the effort as he sucked face with Mindy in front of her now ex-boyfriend, Rick Riley.

" **Hey, sorry,"** the Floridian offered with a teasing grin. **"Our little secret!"**

Once all of the Ducks were together on the ice for their celebration, they drew further cheers from the crowd as Bombay unveiled an Eden Hall Ducks banner that obscured the school's old Indian mascot, prompting Linda to give Charlie an appreciative kiss, which he returned more deeply.

As the crowd began quacking, Larson fixated on Connie, the comely brunette's long, braided ponytail whipping around as she embraced different teammates.

 _Porcelain Goddess…you_ will _be mine._


	27. Destiny Beckons

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Destiny Beckons  
**

Adam looked up from his desk as he heard a rapping at his door.

"That'll probably be Mindy," he figured.

"Probably," a recumbent Luis agreed, rising to his feet.

The Floridian made the short walk over to the door and answered it.

"Oh, Julie!"

Adam felt a spike of adrenaline as Luis announced the presence of his crush.

"What's up?" Luis asked.

"Hey, Luis – is Adam in there?"

"He sure is."

Adam could smell Julie's perfume as she entered. In an effort to appear indifferent to her presence, he scribbled furiously onto his algebra homework, giving the appearance of a student hard at work. In reality, all he was doing was writing down random numbers and letters.

Julie, no slacker herself when it came to schoolwork, could not help but marvel at the appearance of Adam hard at work on the Friday before Christmas Break – and on his own birthday, no less. The Ducks sang for him at lunch, and Goldberg had baked him a birthday apple pie, thinking it would be hilarious to deny cake to the 'Cake Eater.' But there was no party or gift giving, in no small part because Adams' friends figured that his parents would get him everything he ever wanted and then some.

But Julie had found something for him.

"Hey, Adam!" She greeted him. "Happy birthday!"

"Ah, thanks," he replied, setting his pencil down. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to give you this," she extended a red envelope with a white bow toward him.

Now, he was intrigued.

"Can I open it now?"

"I kinda assumed you would."

"Right, right."

Reaching into his top desk drawer, Adam retrieved a letter opener that had made them the butt of many Luis jokes. The Floridian never understood why Adam couldn't just rip open his envelopes, and Adam never understood why anyone wouldn't use the right tool for the right job. After a quick slice, Adam opened the envelope and revealed its contents.

It was one of the takes from Team USA's Wheaties box picture from the summer of 1995 – when Julie and Adam had first met.

Adam chuckled as he examined the picture.

"No wonder they made us do another take after this one."

The kids were all standing around, looking casual in their Team USA training jackets. It would have been an acceptable photograph had Julie not gotten up on her tiptoes and given Adam bunny ears. The fact that the expression on his face was so earnest and serious made the bunny ears look all the more ridiculous.

"Well _I_ always liked this one," Julie protested.

"So did I," Adam hastened to agree. "Thank you Julie, this was really...sweet...of you."

"I know the perfect place for it," Luis declared.

For a moment, Adam had forgotten that his roommate was still there.

The Floridian seized the photo, grabbed a pushpin, and tacked 'Bunny Ears' smack dab into the middle of Adam's corkboard – where no one could possibly miss it.

"And if he ever dares to take it down, you'll be the first to know," Luis assured Julie.

"Heh, thanks, Luis," she replied. "Well, I better get ready for my flight. Merry Christmas, guys – and happy birthday, Adam."

The goalie was not even out the door for a full second before Luis turned to Adam with a knowing smile.

"Oooh."

"Shut up."

"Ok, Mr. Rosy Cheeks."

Adam tried to return to his algebra homework, but his eyes kept drifting up toward Bunny Ears. Obviously it was a gag gift, but no one else had gotten him anything, and it showed a personal touch on Julie's part. But it also was silly and kind of embarassing. Adam's head spun as he tried in vain to unravel the mystery behind Julie's birthday gift.

* * *

The regular season and the postseason came and went over the long winter. Re-christened the Eden Hall Mighty Ducks, both hockey teams made respectable runs during the state playoffs, with Varsity earning another State Championship and the JV squad coming up just short in their league.

With four seniors, including Captain Rick Riley, due to graduate that spring, Varsity was on course for a major shakeup; and their longstanding postseason dominance could no longer be guaranteed. Of course, if Varsity's roster was due for an overhaul the following year, JV's own roster could not remain intact either, as its best players would invariably get selected to move up to Varsity.

This thought quietly, but menacingly gnawed at Adam.

He did not spend _every_ waking minute dreading the roster possibilities of the future, but these thoughts occurred to him more often than he would have liked. To make matters worse, he knew that Larson and McGill would be around next year to tryout for the hockey program as walk-ons.

But then, they had been away from the game for an entire season. No amount of training could ever simulate the speed and intensity of real hockey games. Would that particular hurdle be too great for Larson and McGill to surmount?

Adam sure hoped so.

Yet all of these fears paled in comparison to his single-greatest terror: dating.

It had become increasingly expected of him, and it struck the competitive forward as an appalling risk. He didn't like the idea of putting himself out there and exposing himself to possible rejection, and he just couldn't figure out how this _particular_ game was to be played. But the risk of rejection was only half the problem.

What if a girl was _actually_ into him?

That did not seem like a guarantee of happiness to say the least. Charlie and Linda seemed to be doing well, as did Mindy and Luis – though Adam suspected that the glamorous couple was using each other to gain attention for themselves. Connie and Guy, on the other hand, had been weird toward each other all year long, but when a green-eyed brunette named Vicki Worthington started putting the moves on Guy, the on-again/off-again nature of Connie and Guy's relationship became consistently 'off.'

Ultimately, Vicki ended up doing what Larson had instructed her to do: she dumped the smitten blond forward in a deeply humiliating way. But the damage to Guy's relationship had already been done, and all of his efforts to win his old girlfriend's affection appeared to be little more than a fallback option to Connie, rather than real love. So the old Duck couple spent their entire freshman year being estranged from each other.

Adam had gone through several different blue notepads over the course of the school year, but he kept the one containing his contact information for Julie stored in a desk drawer. He bitterly regretted all of the occasions that he had chickened out during the hockey season, and with hockey now over, he felt that he could not exchange information with her under the pretext of being teammates. After all, there was no certainty that they would even be teammates as sophomores.

* * *

Spring had arrived, and with it, the dance season.

The inter-class Semi-Formal of the fall semester had come and gone with few Ducks bothering to attend. Not wanting to earn the wrath of Riley and Cole, Scooter decided against asking Julie out on that occasion, leaving the female goalie alone in her dorm with Connie – with a bag full of mini chocolate bars, and a bunch of action movies that featured men getting blown to smithereens, the ideal coping mechanism for male-induced heartache.

But with the arrival of May, the _real_ dances were set to begin. The Freshman Formal, the Sophomore Dance, the Junior Prom, and the Senior Ball were all separate intra-class occasions, but a few of the more attractive underclassmen, including Luis, had won invitations to the upperclass dances.

The charismatic Floridian had even secured a Senior Ball date for Adam in the form of an attractive brunette named Andrea. Slowly but surely, Adam's fear of pretty girls had begun to diminish. Though they had become less likely to strike terror in his heart, they hardly made him any more loquacious, and the reserved forward struggled to engage in conversation with his date.

Instead, he listened – or _pretended to listen_ – with an occasional nod of the head, and a "yeah," "cool," or "that's lame."

Though lacking in the conversational department, Adam Banks was richly-furnished in the dancing one, which came as a pleasant surprise to his date in the aqua-colored gown. All that time on the ice had made Adam very good on his feet; he had rhythm, and proved to be a natural dancer – despite lacking formal instruction.

But Andrea was not the only person in the school gym who admired Adam's dancing abilities.

Julie Gaffney wistfully looked on from the refreshments table as the handsome young man in his black tuxedo, silver vest and matching tie danced with who Julie regarded as the luckiest girl in the world.

Eventually, the elegant pair stopped dancing and Adam approached Julie's station, causing her heart to flutter. The boy's sandy hair had been made to look darker and shinier with the pomade he had used to part his hair from left to right. This contrast had the effect of making his sapphire eyes appear even more striking than she ordinarily found them.

And of course, Adam's tuxedo and tie were immaculate, and so was the perfectly-folded pocket square that added extra crispness to the outfit.

Worried that she would be caught staring, Julie quickly looked down at the table and pretended to be occupied by shuffling plates and cups around the surface.

As Julie looked down, Adam's eyes widened. He had only _just_ noticed her. There she was, easily the school's most beautiful girl by his own estimate, looking pretty but not overdone in a cream-colored dress. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid to reveal a lovely pair of round, sterling earrings with emerald studs that matched the shade of her eyes.

Adam surprised himself by managing to find his voice.

"Hey," he called out, prompting Julie to look up from her 'work.'

"Hey," she grinned.

The poor boy couldn't help it. Her smile caused him to grin shyly while his cheeks turned scarlet. He looked down, hoping that she would attribute his flushed cheeks to the dancing.

"So…" he began. "You're serving refreshments?"

"Yep. It's for Student Council," she explained. "I wanted to get my community service requirement for graduation knocked out early."

"Good thinking," he nodded.

As he looked up at her, his sapphire gaze drew a shy smile.

"Could I have two punches, please?"

"Sure. Anything else?"

"No, thanks though. I think we're good for now."

Julie nodded, grabbed her ladle, and got to work filling two styrofoam cups with red punch.

"There you are," she carefully handed him the cups. "Anything else?"

Adam chuckled slightly.

"I already said 'no,' but thank you."

"Oh, of course! Anyway, enjoy!"

"Thanks."

And with that, Adam turned and made for the table where his date was sitting with Mindy, Luis, and other senior friends. Despite being disappointed by the brevity of their conversation, Julie was grateful that Adam had left before she _really_ had a chance to make a fool of herself.

"A bit of liquid refreshment," Adam offered Andrea as he set a cup down in front of her.

"Hey, where's ours?" Luis demanded, indicating Mindy and himself.

"You've got legs, don't you?"

Luis flashed a mischievous grin that made Adam feel apprehensive.

"True. I guess I'll go up and get some from Julie."

"No, I got it!" Adam insisted.

He had no idea what exactly the suave lothario had in mind, but Adam did not want to take any chances. And if he had the excuse to talk to Julie again, then where was the harm? The quiet forward turned and began to heading back to the refreshments table when Luis interrupted his thoughts.

"Hey, Adam!" The speedster called out. "Could you come over here, please?"

Adam nodded, approaching his roommate.

"Yes?"

"If you don't ask Julie for a dance, I'll ask her for you."

Adam froze. The look of terror that spread across his face confirmed the Floridian's long-held suspicions.

"Come on, Banks," he continued in a whisper. "It's obvious that you're into her, and she's been eyeing you all night long."

"She has?"

"Yep. Now go and ask her already!"

"Right," Adam nodded, moving to leave.

"And don't forget the punch!" Luis called out.

 _Yeah, yeah, yeah._

Andrea was not Adam's girlfriend, and the pair of them had an understanding that they were free to dance with whomever they liked, so he did not worry about any fallout from that. But as he approached Julie's station, he felt his throat tighten. The words would not be willing volunteers for his little mission. He knew that he would have to conscript them, but he worried about sounding forced and awkward.

"Oh, back for more?" A surprised Julie asked as Adam stopped in front of her table.

"Um, yeah. Two more please."

Julie nodded, and began filling two more cups.

"And dance with me?"

 _Smooth, Banks. Real smooth._

Julie looked up from her work with a slight start, unsure if she had correctly heard Adam's last request.

"I mean, you wanna dance, right?" Adam asked. "You can dance with me, if you like. Andrea's cool with it."

"Sure!" Julie exclaimed, earning herself a private chiding.

 _Be a little more obvious, why don't ya?_

But her excited grin gave way to a disappointed frown.

"Oh, but I can't leave my station though," she said softly. "I'd love to, but I can't."

"No worries," came a deep voice.

The two Ducks turned to see Paul Larson approach in a white dress shirt, khaki slacks, brown shoes, and a red tie that hung loosely from his neck.

"I'll cover for you, Julie," the ex-Hawk offered.

"Oh, thanks!"

She only vaguely knew her fellow student councilor, and the boy had never appeared eager to help before. But she wasn't about to question his offer. Not when a dance with Adam Banks was on the line.

"No problem," Larson replied before looking to Adam. "Have fun," he added with a smile.

Adam was sure that Larson had intended for the grin to appear affable, but it made the forward's stomach turn.

"Thanks, Larson," he managed quietly.

Julie left her station and reached for Adam's hand, which he took readily enough, leaving the punch behind. He felt electricity surge up his arm as he gripped her smooth, dainy hand.

As they reached the dance floor, her eyes lit up in excitement as Los del Río's _Macarena_ came on over the speakers. The catchy Spanglish dance song had swept the country, and no high school dance was complete without it. Adam was simultaneously disappointed and relieved that he was not walking into an intimate slow-dance with Julie. The _Macarena_ was a group dance rather than a couple's dance, and it required minimal contact with others.

As Luis observed the grins on the faces of his two overachieving teammates, he realized a fact that continued to elude the pair on the dance floor: they had it bad for each other.

* * *

Jake McGill plopped down onto his father's massive recliner with a big bag of Cheetos and one of his old man's beers in hand. His parents were off for an afternoon of hard drinking with another pair of winos, leaving their son home alone – surrounded by beer and liquor. This was a regular act of self-deception that Mr. and Mrs. McGill engaged in. After all, if they went out drinking with their friends, they were _social drinkers_ , rather than alcoholics.

Their daughter Melanie, home from college, was out with her latest boyfriend.

McGill cracked open his beer – already his third of the day at 1 o'clock – and turned on the TV. The Stanley Cup Finals had come and gone, so hockey coverage was now limited to the offseason roster moves of the various teams.

After taking a couple of swigs, McGill opened the bag of Cheetos and started to eat the puffy orange-and-salty goodness by the fistful.

He was completely and utterly alone.

His relationship with Larson had stultified his social life, and he could not honestly count any other boy at school as a friend. But he had managed to date quite a bit. Sometimes Larson conspired to get McGill's girlfriends to dump him, but most of the time, the girls were repelled by McGill's clinginess and neediness.

The only person who ever seemed to be there for McGill on a regular basis was Paul Larson. But McGill could tell that even this relationship was troubled. The former Hawk defenseman had lost his gentleness and his willingness to forgive McGill's little slip-ups. Whenever McGill ran afoul of his quiet 'friend,' he was banished without a trace of pity. And this had the effect of putting a huge target on his back for every bully at Eden Hall Academy.

McGill had no desire to return to that hateful boarding school. It was full of testosterone-crazed sadists and fickle girls who couldn't love him.

And Paul Larson…who somehow seemed to be in control of it all.

McGill downed his beer can and staggered to his feet for another one. He set the bag of Cheetos onto an arm of the recliner and shuffled toward the kitchen when he heard a knock at the door. The doorbell had gone quiet years ago, but his parents could never be bothered to replace it, and visitors knew that if they wished to be let in, they had better knock rather than ring.

The ex-forward let out an annoyed grunt as he turned back toward the front door. Some jerk was coming between him and his comfort food and drink.

 _What the hell do they want?!_

He opened the door to see Paul Larson on the front step.

The former defenseman seemed to have gotten even taller, and his dark, shaggy hair had gotten slicked back into a '50s-greaser-style pompadour. As McGill looked over his guest, he could not help but notice just how muscular his old teammate had gotten. Larson's muscles were highly visible in his tight, undersized white T, the sleeves of which left his long, toned arms exposed. Larson's camo cargo shorts rode up a good inch-and-a-half over his knees while standing. His legs appeared even more muscular and powerful than his arms.

McGill swallowed at the impressive sight.

"Hey, Paul."

"Hey, Jake. Ready to train?"

"Huh?"

"Just three months til tryouts," Larson announced. "We have to stay fit and sharp."

"Great. Have fun, then," McGill moved to shut the door, but Larson planted the toe of a big, black Army combat boot over the threshold.

"You're coming with."

"Paul, I don't care about this stupid game anymore," McGill groaned. "Just leave me alone."

"Can't do that, I'm afraid."

Larson began to push the door forward. McGill tried to resist, but the defenseman had become a lot stronger than the forward over the last four years.

"Just go, please!" McGill pleaded.

Larson gave one last shove, throwing the door wide open and sending McGill tumbling backwards onto the hardwood floor.

"Have you been drinking?" The defenseman inquired.

"Only pop."

Larson's eyes narrowed.

"Do. Not. _Lie_ to me."

"Alright, a couple beers."

Larson extended a hand and helped McGill to his feet.

"They really mess up your coordination," the defenseman observed. "We are gonna have to work those off with some extra sprints. And by 'we,' I mean _you._ "

But McGill was in no mood to do Larson's bidding. Especially if it required physical exertion.

"Go back to hell where you came from."

Larson's eyes widened at McGill's insolence.

 _Well, we can't have that._

He reached over and attacked McGill's shoulder cleft with a well-placed pinch. McGill felt a sharp pain run down his spine and it forced him to slide down the wall. Larson continued his assault, working his way down the various pressure points while McGill was pinned down, wedged between the floor and the wall.

"Gah, stop!" McGill pleaded.

"What are you gonna do?" Larson asked.

"Go back to my living room!"

"Wrong answer."

"GAAAH!" McGill writhed against the wall. "Ok, I'll train! Just stop, please!"

Larson let up at once, extending a hand to help McGill back to his feet.

"I don't want to hurt you, Jake," Larson declared. "So _please_ don't make me. You know that I'm all you have, and I only want what's best for you. Us against the world?"

"Yeah, us against the world…I guess."

"Hey, now," Larson grinned. "Where's your enthusiasm?"

"I lost that a _while_ ago."

"Well I have no idea why. You have _so much_ going for you! I mean, you're an amazing forward, a good friend, and the best spare set of brains that I've got." Larson then leaned in to whisper. "And you're pretty."

At that, McGill chuckled. He didn't think that Larson meant anything by those last three words, but they raised his spirits all the same. He just wasn't used to getting validated by others. It only seemed to come from Larson, the few times it ever did, and even Larson's words of praise had grown increasingly scarce over the years.

Larson observed McGill's body language relax and was satisfied that the forward had become more malleable. There was nothing on earth that Larson hated more than a defiant McGill. Larson lived for these moments, when McGill was soft, vulnerable, and open to flattery. He liked to make McGill feel good.

But he _loved_ the rise that he got by dominating his old friend.

And Larson knew that he couldn't be lovey-dovey all the time and still keep McGill under control. Some well-timed cruelty was essential.

"Come on," Larson began. "Grab your gear and let's go."

McGill nodded.

"It's just you and me, Jake. You know I'd never give up on such an awesome friend. Us against the world?"

"Us against the world!"

Larson grinned malevolently as he watched McGill race up the stairs to change…eager once more to be his slave.

* * *

Adam finished packing the belongings in his closet in anticipation of moving out of his freshman dorm the following day. June had arrived, classes were over and final exams had been completed. Now, it was just a matter of preparing to return home and getting in some quality time with his teammates before they parted ways for the summer.

Like the rest of the out-of-staters, Luis had already sent most of his stuff home through a moving company. His side of the tiny room was completely bare, and it had the effect of making Adam feel lonely. Adam had never needed constant, direct companionship. But when his friends weren't around, he liked to at least have physical reminders of them by his side, be they photographs or other mementos.

The sterile feeling of the increasingly lifeless room made Adam desperate to get out, so he decided to do just that.

The door nearly hit him in the face as it swung open.

"Oh, hey, Banks!" Luis greeted his roommate.

"Hey, Luis," Adam replied. "I was just heading out. Might as well enjoy the weather, right?"

Luis nodded. It was a gorgeous day in the third week of June. A gentle early summer breeze made the cloudless, sunny day feel like comfy bubble bath warmed to the perfect temperature.

"Actually, that's why I came to get you," the Floridian announced. "Charlie wants to squeeze in one last game of roller hockey. You up for it?"

"You know it!"

Without wasting another second, Adam retrieved his pads, blades, stick, and bicycle helmet while Luis grabbed his own gear.

"So, you all packed up and ready for tomorrow?" Luis asked as the pair made for the door.

"Just about," Adam nodded. "I still have to clean out my desk."

Luis smiled mischievously, drawing a worried look from Adam.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," the Floridian replied. "I guess you didn't notice that _this_ was missing then," he fished a blue notepad out of the right front pocket of his shorts.

Adam's _old_ blue notepad.

"Why...you…." the soft-spoken forward seethed. "How dare you go through my things?! What else have you got?!"

Luis wiped the smirk off his face and looked earnest.

"Nothing, I swear," the speedster insisted. "Just the notepad. And I had a very good reason for taking it."

"Which is?" Adam demanded with folded arms.

"That I'm going to do you a favor and swap contact info with Julie…cos you're a total wuss."

Adam's fists clenched. First came the invasion of privacy, and now he was being insulted. He angrily snatched the notepad.

"I'll show you how much of a wuss I am," the former Hawk snapped.

"That's the spirit!" Luis enthused. "No guts, no glory!"

Adam's dark mood lightened somewhat at his roommate's enthusiasm. After ducking a possible rejection for his entire freshman year, the risk-averse forward had finally accepted that he needed to take a chance. He thought back – as he usually did when Julie was mentioned – to that day in the dining hall when he had sworn off friendship with Larson and had been exiled to the Nerds' table.

Having been cast aside earlier that day by Varsity, Adam had found himself bitter and alone on an island. This bitterness and isolation led him to entertain very dark, and _very tempting_ thoughts about taking destiny into his own hands. Thoughts about pounding 'twerps' into submission and getting the school to bend to his own will had been deeply intoxicating. He didn't need friends – they only would have gotten in his way. He would crush Paul Larson and anyone else who stood in his path towards domination of the student body.

And he felt an incredible rush of excitement and pleasure at the thought of returning to his bullying Hawk ways.

Then came a gentle hand on his shoulder, and a smile that could melt glaciers.

Julie Gaffney had pulled Adam out of his dark, destructive brooding in the nick of time, though she had not realized it. Not only was she brainy, beautiful, and kind, but she made Adam want to be a better person. He knew that his past, and his instincts were on the dark side. And he knew that Larson would be around to tempt him sophomore year. But Adam felt confident that Julie could push all of that away.

"I'll do it," Adam affirmed. "But I'd appreciate it if you could avoid larceny in the future."

"You got it, Lawyer Boy," Luis grinned.

Adam rolled his eyes, but chuckled at the tag.

"And if you tell anyone how I feel about Julie, I will kill you slowly, and then I'll use my 'Lawyer Boy' skills to talk myself into an acquittal."

"Hey, your secret's my secret," Luis assured Adam. "Last thing I need is Lawyer Boy on my case."

"Well, let's go already!" Adam urged, placing the notepad in his front pocket, opposite his trusty Swiss Army knife.

The chance to get to know Julie Gaffney beckoned, and the ex-Hawk was determined not to let it slip away again.

 **THE END**


End file.
